Strike Out
by StrikeTeam
Summary: Elise knew working at Shield meant keeping her research secret, but she isn't prepared for the events that follow her reassignment to an operation headed by Alexander Pierce himself. As things escalate, she finds herself falling for a man who may not be who she thought he was. When her life becomes more than just research, will she follow her brain or her heart? (OC/BrockRumlow)
1. Strike 1 - Beginnings

"Now Elise, don't embarrass our lab." Professor Nikolav jokes for what must be the hundredth time today. I sigh into the phone.

"I won't, Dr. Nikolav, I'm a grown-up. I can handle myself here." I open the trunk of my car and pick up the box of personal items I'd brought to make my new workspace feel more… homely. If you can ever call Shield homely, that is.

"Okay, I don't know when I'll talk to you next, but Alexander has assured me that you'll be taken care of." Was I wrong to think that there was a hint of uneasiness in his voice?

"I'm sure I'll be fine, professor," I nod at the valet as I toss him my keys, readjusting the phone's awkward placement between my shoulder and ear.

Another vehicle pulls up behind me and I'm aware of the sounds of men climbing out, doors slamming and heavy boots on the concrete. I turn my head a little to watch them ascend the stairs to the building, readjusting the phone again. It slips out of my hand and I panic, loosening my grip on the box. I watch in slow motion as it bounces down the steps, my possessions and folders scattering out with every impact. I mentally chastise myself as it finally comes to a stop on the penultimate step. Bidding my professor a quick goodbye, I slip my phone into my back pocket before I begin picking up my belongings.

To my surprise, someone's hands are joining mine in the clean-up effort.

"It's fine, you don't need to–" I look up expecting a valet or a bell boy, but find myself staring at a man dressed entirely in black combat gear.

His brown eyes meet mine, and I'm a little taken aback by his rugged good looks.

"It's my pleasure, Ms. Summers." He hands me my name tag with an amused smirk. When had that gotten in the box? I could've sworn–

"Rumlow, get over here."

His attention is drawn in the direction of the call.

"Have to go," He casts me an apologetic glance as he stands, then nods towards the box. "Might want to keep a tighter grip on that."

I watch him turn and walk away, rejoining the group of men in black as they enter the building.

STRIKE team. Damn.

_Now Elise, don't embarrass our lab._ Dr. Nikolav's words come back to me.

Sorry, Doctor. Too late for that.


	2. Strike 2 - Protocol

I had just finished gathering the last of my things when a pair of polished black shoes descended the stairs, stopping just before my cardboard box. I glance up and recognize the face almost immediately. _Michael Sullivan_. He's not exactly the welcoming party I'd expected to run into. More like the welcoming party I'd expect to run _away from_.

"Elise!" He beams. "Pierce told me you'd be joining our team today. Transferring over from the research division at the sandbox, I've heard?"

I shrug.

"Nikolav always did sing your praises." The smile disappears from his face, and there's a sigh in his voice as he looks me over appraisingly.

"Better be careful, your true colours are beginning to show already." I smile at him innocently as I pick up my box.

"What are you talking about? I've never attempted to hide my dislike of you." He wrinkles his nose at me before he turns to climb the steps. I laugh out loud at his honesty. At least there was _one_ redeeming aspect about him.

I follow him into the building. High ceilings, glass and chrome detailing… not much different from the Triskellion. It's quieter here though, and there are far fewer people bustling about. A lone secretary greets us at the desk, and I raise an eyebrow at Michael when he identifies himself as the "interviewer".

"Don't give me that look. You're working under my team here, didn't Nikolav tell you?" He shoots me an incredulous glance as we step into an elevator.

"No, everything is classified. How could he tell me that? And why would you of all people select me to join your team? How could I believe that?" I snort in derision at his suggestion.

Michael hates me. He's hated me ever since we completed our PhDs in the Nikolav lab. To expect him to give me some credit now was like asking me to believe that oranges are purple.

The doors open to an executive suite which is too glitzy too look remotely like the psychology research labs I'd spent time in over the years. Not enough clutter, no computers from the dark ages, no claustrophobic hallways lined with research posters.

"Don't get comfortable yet, you won't be working here." As if he's read my mind, Michael chimes in with his derisive tone.

"I figured." I reply flatly as we stop before a wall of glass. Behind it, there's a conference room. In it, a large table, chairs all around… and a lie detector? On the table.

"Are you kidding me? A polygraph?" I actually have to laugh out loud at their audacity, "You know as well as I do that those things are phony for lie detection. There's absolutely no scientific evidence supporting-"

"Yes, well, I told them that it was never going to fool a neuroscience student, but you know how they are with formalities at Shield. Just do it for protocol, alright? Don't make my life more difficult than it is." He glares at me as he swipes his card and opens the door.

I roll my eyes and follow him into the room.


	3. Strike 3 - Uncertainty

Four hours. It's been four hours since we entered this room for what should have been an "interview" but ended up being more like an interrogation.

Michael is still talking when a man enters, crossing the floor to stand just behind him.

_Alexander Pierce._

I'm beginning to think I'm way out of my depth here. I mean, just yesterday I was a student, a researcher with published work under her belt, yes, but none that was so extraordinary that it demanded this much attention.

I should accept it. I should be happy, even. I got promoted, after all. But one of the heads of Shield itself is standing right there. I feel more like a little kid being called to the principal's office for doing something bad, than someone being rewarded for good work.

"Are you listening to me, Elise?"

I've never seen a look of such severity on Michael's face. I nod silently.

"She's probably tired, Michael. Why don't you give her a break? Get her some refreshments from downstairs." Pierce smiles at him as he seats himself across from me.

"Yes, sir." Michael stands and leaves without another word.

It's eerie. Everything about this has been eerie. Including…

I direct my attention to the man before me.

"How are you finding your reassignment so far?" His smile is gentle, and I carefully control my response.

"It's been a little overwhelming, but I'm dealing with it." I smile back, attempting to look confident.

"Good, good. You know, it's always hard leaving things behind. But sometimes we have to do just that." He watches me pensively, and I wonder what he meant by that.

"Are you prepared to join an exclusive team, Elise?"

Well, I don't really feel like I can say no here. I mean, I didn't go through all of this interrogation for nothing.

"I'm prepared, sir."

"You'd have to cut off all ties with your former colleagues. The kind of work we do here… is work that will change the world for the better. And we must make sure that it stays a secret until our goals are realized." His blue eyes bore into me, but I don't budge in my resolve… despite the growing niggling worry in the back of my mind.

When I don't reply, he smiles again.

"I was impressed by your thesis defense. What was it, motor control? Promising work." He stands up.

"Indeed. I'm excited to learn more about the plasticity of neurons in the cerebellum." I lose control of myself for a second and let a little too much enthusiasm out. I correct myself as his smile widens.

"I think you'll be excited to see the work we've done on a particular subject. But before that, I need your guarantee that you're in on all of this. I'll be frank with you, once you're in, there is no way out of it but death."

I examine his face for any hint of a lie. Sensing none, the gravity of the situation sets on me.

Well, could be worse, right?

"And as long as I'm on this team, I'll be protected?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

He pauses for a moment, and I'm beginning to anticipate a response I don't want to hear.

"Of course. As long as you remain loyal to the cause." He gives me another of those mysterious smiles before he turns and leaves the room.

All right then?


	4. Strike 4 - Ethics

When Michael comes back with the refreshments, he's back to his normal self. Well, as normal as a derisively condescending jerk can ever be. Still, normal for _him_, I guess.

I let the warmth of the tea cup fill my palms as I gaze out of the wall of glass that constitutes a "window".

The road below the building is fairly empty except for a row of black armoured vehicles idling at the steps. Pierce's convoy, I bet. It's not like a high level agent can just hail a taxi to wherever he needs to go, after all.

"Enjoying the view?" Michael rounds the table corner and joins me at the windows.

"It's like the corner office I never had in academia." I reply with a pensive smirk, my eyes still glued to the idling trucks.

"I didn't know you ever dreamt of one. Always seemed to me that you quite enjoyed your little cubicle in the grad student office, tucked away behind your stats books, sobbing over SPSS."

"At least I was following my own agenda, not someone else's orders," I retort, raising an eyebrow at him, "And how have you fared any better here?"

"I have the support of my colleagues. We're changing the world with our technology. No higher organizations, no governments to silence our research. It's a scientist's dream come true, Elise. Near unlimited funding, no censors."

No censors? I laugh out loud.

"What a joke. No censors? Shield is the biggest censor there is, after the government." I put my cup down, glancing up at him.

His mouth is set in a sober frown, and it's clear that he firmly believes what he's just said to me.

"And anyway, half of it sounds highly unethical." I shrug, turning away.

"Sometimes ethics is what stands in the way of great work!" He grabs my arm, and there's a look in his eyes that startles me. "Zimbardo, Milgram, Watson… look at what they've done for our field."

This isn't like Michael, and I'm feeling a growing sense of unease.

"Listen, I know-" I begin, only to be interrupted as the doors of the room slide open. A man in a suit enters.

"I've come to get Ms. Summers. It's time for her physical examination." He looks at both of us, then steps out expectantly.

Michael lets go of me, and I can see that there's something else on his tongue, but I'm not sure I want to stick around to hear it. Things are getting a little strange, and I feel like I need to distance myself from him for the time being.

"Listen, I need to go. It's been nice catching up with you today." I smile at him, crossing the room to retrieve my box.

"Same to you." He replies, turning his back to me.

His words felt distant and empty, but I don't have time to contemplate them. The man in the suit is already pacing away without me. I follow him out of the room, glancing back just once to see Michael standing at the glass windows, his hands behind his back, watching the street below.

This has been a really weird reunion.


	5. Strike 5 - Challenger

"Heart rate is average for your age." The doctor peers over at the monitor, watching the numbers fluctuate steadily as she checks something off on her clipboard.

I don't respond. Frankly, it's a little hard to when you're running on a treadmill with a respiratory apparatus fitted around your nose and mouth.

I watch her calibrate the equipment as she increases the speed, then turn my attention to the view beyond the glass.

The strike team guys are out there, killing time. Wonder what brings them so far from their usual training base. Maybe they're here for Pierce.

"Just give it a few more minutes. The blood tests will be back in a while, but I have your old charts from your last physical. If nothing has changed you should be okay on the check-up." The doctor folds her arms and watches me.

She looks about forty, but judging by the grey streaks in her frizzy orange hair, I could be wrong.

Maybe working at Shield does that to you. She's probably seen her fair share of combat injuries.

"Anyone caught your eye around here yet?" She smiles, and I notice the wrinkles that appear at the corners of her eyes.

I shrug, then I remember the man I'd run into on the steps. Well, he was certainly easy on the eyes.

"You're still young, you know? There aren't a lot of ladies at this facility. You'll be bound to catch the eye of someone special." She types something into her laptop before turning off the treadmill. I begin removing the respiratory gear as the conveyor slows to a gradual stop below my feet.

"Let's just say the people in my field of work aren't exactly flirtatious." I reply flatly as I get off the machine, grabbing for the towel on the examination table.

"Well, maybe you need a little exposure to people outside your field." She smiles, raising her eyebrows. "Last thing for today is your sparring test."

Oh lord, _no_.

The look of disgust must be obvious on my face, because she's laughing now.

"I know, it must be horrible after all you've been through today. Unfortunately our guy for the test is off sick for the week. I'll need to grab another brute to be your sparring match." Her gaze strays to the guys chatting outside. "It'll be hard with your weight class though, those strike team guys are monsters."

"Hold on a minute Dr. Jones, I'm not at the same level as any of those…"

"Well, I'll find someone." She winks, putting her clipboard down decisively.

"…guys." I finish my sentence, but there's no point; she's already at the door.

Damn. I'm going to make such a fool of myself. I'm in research, not special ops. We got combat training in my last division, but having to do my test with a sparring partner who is elite class is just unfair.

Well, whatever. In the real world, you don't get to choose your enemy's level.

I grab a roll of boxer's tape from the table and begin wrapping my right hand.

After a minute, Dr. Jones re-enters the room.

"Found you a sparring partner. You get the best of the best today." Her smile is suspiciously wide and I'm beginning to think she's anticipating my humiliation.

I'm still taping my left hand when I step out of the examination room and into the sparring facility, my eyes scanning the room for my challenger.

Three men in the corner chatting. Not them. One using a punching bag on the left side. Probably not him.

My gaze settles on a man at the center of the room, standing on the safety mats. He's taking the ammunition out of a shotgun. When he looks up at me, I mentally recoil.

"Elise, this is agent Brock Rumlow."


	6. Strike 6 - You Die

"This is the new recruit?"

"Transfer." I correct him, "I transferred from Nikolav's labs in the research division."

"If you're telling me that because you expect me to go easy on you—"

"I don't." I interrupt, ripping the end of the boxing tape off before I pass the roll to the doctor.

Actually, I was really hoping he would. I only put on this confidence act to fool myself out of being nervous.

"Well, I'm impressed." He shrugs, placing his hands on his hips, and I can't help but notice how prominent his biceps are.

Focus. _Focus._

"That being said, protocol requires me to go a little easy on you if you want to pass the test." He smirks.

"If I don't pass the test in real life, I die." I reply, stepping onto the safety mats.

Rumlow looks past me at the doctor, and I can see that he's amused.

This is my chance to get a better look at him. Looks just shy of six feet, well built, clad in a black t-shirt, combat pants, and boots. He's damn good looking, but more importantly, I don't think I have much of a chance given our obvious weight and muscle mass difference.

He shifts the shotgun from his left hand to his right and points it at me.

Disarming a suspect? That, I can do.

"First test, I'm a hostile." He watches me carefully, a small smile on his lips, "Hands up. Disarm me before I-"

I step forward and in one motion, pivot my body to his left and disarm him.

"_Might want to keep a better grip on that_." I reference his earlier comment, holding the shotgun out to him.

He raises an eyebrow, and there's a new smile on his face. Looks like I've hit a wrong nerve, because he has me in a headlock within two seconds, gun pressed to my head.

"Challenge 2, disarm me before you die." I feel those impressive biceps flex against my throat and for a moment I wonder if he really does plan to suffocate me.

I kick his leg out from under him. His grip loosens on my neck and I manage to slip out, reaching for the gun, which had fallen to the floor in the fray. He's fast though, and his hand is on it before I can reach it. I step on his hand and hesitate, wanting to kick his arm loose but worrying that I'd dislocate his elbow.

He takes advantage of my hesitation and knocks my free leg out from under me. I fall backwards, the safety mats cushioning my impact as my back hits the ground. I try to recover, but he's got the gun and it's pointed at me.

"You knew what to do, why didn't you do it?" He looks genuinely vexed.

"I hate sparring with people I can't hurt." I give my honest reply. He just smiles, extends a hand to me. I take it and stand.

I lost that one. Unfortunately for me though, there are still more rounds to go.

I lose a lot of them, but somehow manage to hold my own. I can't get over my hesitation to hurt him, though, so I end up bested, usually pinned to the floor, more times than I'd like to admit.

After the final sparring challenge, I wander over to a bench.

Wonder how badly I failed.

Well, look on the bright side, I guess. I know the techniques, I just can't use them on a friendly. I wouldn't hesitate against a real enemy.

A bottle of water enters my field of vision and I glance up to note Rumlow standing beside me. I take the bottle, avoiding his gaze as he watches me.

"Well, you're no spec ops..."

Ouch. Guess his verbal blows are as painful as his physical ones. I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Let me finish," He casts me a discouraged look, "but you've got the skills. You could be good. But you hesitate, and that could cost you."

"I'm in the research division. These skills…" I gesture to the sparring area, "If spec ops does their job, I wouldn't need to use them."

"There could be a time when you need to use them." He argues, his brows furrowing. Damn it, why does he have to sit so close to me? My attention is drawn to his jet black hair, to his rough stubble, to the sharp angles of his face and everything _except_ his words.

"Maybe. But I wouldn't hesitate if it was an enemy." I tear my gaze away.

"Sometimes your allies turn against you. What then? Will you hesitate? If you don't pass the test in real life, _you die_, right?" He turns my own line against me.

I sigh. He takes my hand suddenly and it startles me.

God damn it. I've just _wrestled_ with the man and _this_ is what gets to me?

"Who taught you to wrap this way?"

"That's what the instructor recommended." I reply, wondering if he plans to free my hand from his grip any time soon. He's wearing knuckle gloves, but his exposed fingers are rough, covered in small scars.

"Your instructor doesn't understand how to fight in the field." He's unwrapping the tape now, a smirk on his face.

"I have to disagree…" I begin to argue, but then his eyes meet mine, his raised eyebrow challenging me to prove him wrong. I forgot that I'm talking to a STRIKE team member. Experience fighting in the field? Unmatched.

I want to say that I'm paying attention as he wraps my hand, but I'm not. I'm distracted by his scent, by his proximity, by the tactile sensation of his fingers pressing into my skin as he re-wraps the tape around my hand. Fortunately for me, he's too focussed on his task to notice my lack of concentration.

When he's done, he looks at me expectantly. I flex my hand, noting the noticeable difference his wrapping technique makes. It's a little easier to maneuver my fingers, but the knuckles are still adequately wrapped.

"Try it out." He nods towards a nearby punching bag suspended from the ceiling. I hesitate. It's been a long day, I'm tired.

'_I don't really want to do this'_, I think as I get up and walk toward the punching bag.

But he's watching me, so I give it the rest of my remaining energy. After a minute or two, he strides over, folds his arms across his chest and stares at the punching bag.

"How about it?" he asks.

"Better." I reply.

"No," he pauses, placing a hand on the stationary bag, his brown eyes resting on me. His voice holds a different tone than before, and I can't... I can't identify it.

"How about I help you train?"


	7. Strike 7 - Persuasion

My gaze flickers to the examination room, where Michael has joined Dr. Jones. They're both watching us, and I figure Dr. Jones is telling Michael about the results of my tests.

I return my attention to the man standing before me.

"I… I really appreciate it, agent Rumlow, but I don't want to take up any more of your time… You're a busy man." I smile.

If there was a right answer, that wasn't it.

He looks at me in silence for a few seconds, then folds his arms across his chest.

"You're right," He smiles, shrugging his shoulders slightly. "I am."

I'm not imagining it, right? There's an air resonating from him, like someone who's just been jilted.

"I wish you luck with your work, Ms. Summers." He turns and strides away.

No, it's not my imagination. There was a definite edge to his words, as subtle as it may have been.

I bite my lip as I look at my wrapped hand. Maybe I made a mistake.

_'But this is for the best'_, I tell myself. I'm just attracted to Rumlow. Even if I trained with him, I can't deny that I have an ulterior motive. What would he think of me if he found out?

Yes, this is for the best.

I leave the training facility and enter the examination room. I need a shower. The shield-issued t-shirt is clinging to me, and I don't care much for their restrictive track pants either.

Michael's not here anymore, but Dr. Jones is, and she doesn't even attempt to hide her curiosity.

"What happened? Brock seemed a little annoyed when he passed through here." She hands me a towel.

I look at her. So I hadn't imagined it after all.

I take the towel, trying not to remember how casual he'd been when he shot me down. _You're right. I am._

"He did, didn't he?" I sigh.

"What did you say?"

"He offered to train me. I gave the wrong answer." I shrug.

"What a shame. And after I worked so hard to get you guys paired up." Dr. Jones sighs, but she doesn't look that disheartened. The faint smile on her face suggests to me that she's enjoying this game.

"Listen Dr. Jones, I appreciate the thought, but you don't need to play cupid for me. I can handle myself. I just don't think I'm cut out for a relationship or a training regime right now… my research comes first." I pick my clothes up from the bin by the examination table and head for the door to the changing room.

"All right, all right. But you're only 24, honey. There's more to life than work." She calls after me.

_I know_. I resist the urge to make a snappy retort and ignore her as I enter the change room.

When did I become so angry about this? There are a lot of guys out there. It doesn't have to be Rumlow. I haven't lost anything.

I begin to remove the boxing tape from my hands, then pause.

If I haven't lost anything, why do I have to try so hard to persuade myself?


	8. Strike 8 - Operational

I stare absentmindedly at the computer screen, the numbers fading into fuzzy black marks as I drift into thought.

"The SOIs are in different units."

I'm too tired to be startled by Michael's sudden appearance at my desk.

"What?"

"That data you just analyzed. Your units are different. " He points towards the screen, an eyebrow raised appraisingly.

"Oh." I don't even have the energy to make excuses for myself.

"What's going on with you? You don't usually make such amateur mistakes." He folds his arms, watching me like I'm some kind of impostor who showed up instead of the _real_ Elise.

I didn't get a lot of sleep yesterday, that's all. It's not like I was up all night regretting my decision not to train with Rumlow. It's more like I was up all night evaluating my life priorities. Quarter-life crisis, if you will.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just really tired from all of the administrative hassle from yesterday. I won't make any more mistakes." I return my attention to the computer screen and exit out of the SPSS window, opening the EEG files I'd received earlier that morning for a new subject.

I was hoping Michael would take this as his cue to leave, but he stays, much to my disappointment.

"Are you finding it hard to adjust to the new workplace?"

I glance up at the "workplace"… a somewhat cramped 500 square foot office packed with desks, computers and equipment. There are no windows—we're subterranean after all—and overhead fluorescent lights cast a faintly green tint on everything.

"By workplace, you mean "prison"?" I comment under my breath.

Unexpectedly, Michael chuckles.

Funny, yes. It's funny that Shield, a_ multi-billion dollar_ security organization with beautiful buildings, like the Triskellion, could have such pathetic research facilities right below one of said beautiful buildings. After the amount of trouble I had to go through getting security clearance to get in here, I'm not impressed.

"You seem to be getting along well with everyone so far, though." Michael comments.

I ignore him, opening the subject file on my desktop.

"Even the Strike team, apparently." He adds. I glance at him briefly. He's not smiling any more, just watching me closely.

"What are you talking about?" I redirect my attention to the computer screen to avoid his gaze.

"Are you acquainted with Brock Rumlow?" He tries to sound curious, but it comes across a tad too critical for my taste. Is it any of his business if I'm acquainted with the man or not?

"I was just surprised to see him talking to you in the sparring facility." He adds, running a hand through his light brown hair. "I always took him for the brawns type, so it was strange to see him pay attention to someone who isn't even in spec ops."

I'm not sure what he's implying here, but I feel faintly offended. I may not be in spec ops, but that doesn't mean I'm not worth talking to.

Whatever, I've had enough of his small talk for this morning.

"Listen, Michael. I really need to take a look at these files before the subject arrives tomorrow, and it's a lot of analysis, so…"

"I get it, I get it." He raises his hands in mock surrender, "I'll leave you to work."

He leaves without another word, and I can finally return to looking through the data files.

The subject is a 26 year old Caucasian male with no history of mental health problems or brain injuries. Apparently he uses a revolutionary robotic prosthesis which they've been able to sync to the nerve endings in his arm, allowing one-to-one mapping for accurate movement.

If it's true, I'll be extremely impressed. I'd love to get some cerebellum fMRI readings…

Then I remember the cautionary tone the head researcher had used as he gave me the files earlier this morning.

_I know you're excited, but don't expect to get a lot of data out of this for your own research interest. Our priority is to improve the prosthesis for its purpose—it's a weapon. Pierce doesn't care about anything else. _

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed, but this is just the reality at Shield. So much of their research could be used to improve the lives of average people… but that work never sees the light of day.

When I joined Dr. Nikolav's lab as a PhD student, Shield was affiliated as research partners on the project I was responsible for. Accordingly, I was allowed to publish my work in public journals, but Shield withheld some of the results.

That's when I learned that this is how they operate.

The door to the lab opens and an unfamiliar man steps in, scanning the room briefly.

"There you are. Elise Summers? We need you present in the lab. The subject has arrived and we need to monitor his brain readings for irregularities."

"What? But he's not supposed to arrive until tomorrow." I pick up the folder of hard copy files.

"Change of plans. They want time to do a full physical." He sighs, and I infer that this isn't the first time these researchers have been inconvenienced by orders from higher-up.

Working here might turn out to be _very_ interesting.


	9. Strike 9 - A Reason

_Authors Note: Hey guys! I don't usually leave author's notes, but this site makes it really hard to interact with readers. I'm just writing this to say thank you so much for your reads, reviews, faves and follows! I appreciate and read all reviews, even though I can't reply. Thank you so much for your support! _

_- strike_

* * *

The closer we get to our destination, the more the hallways seem to be over-run with heavily armed men.

We reach a decrepit looking room, and after flashing our badges to the guards, we're allowed to enter.

Inside, there are already researchers setting up equipment and taking readings. Michael is standing in the centre of the room, beside a shirtless man seated in a restraining chair. Judging by the metal arm, I think it's safe to say that he's our subject.

Michael looks up at our arrival and motions me over.

"Get some electrodes on him, and take an EEG reading for all the separate cortices, especially the motor cortex."

For the most part he seems to be behaving normally compared to this morning.

I retrieve the material and pull up a seat beside the subject's chair.

He watches me, his jaw set, an untrusting look in his eyes. His disheveled brown hair and stubble make him look wild, like a homeless man they just picked up off the street.

"Hi, I'm Elise." I introduce myself with a gentle smile, just like I do to all my subjects. "Do you mind if I take a few readings? I need to put some gel in your hair so that the electrodes will be able to read your brain signals."

"_Elise_. Just do it. There's no need to follow protocol." Michael snaps.

"Michael, it's my routine." I cast him a pointed glance, "Just let me do my job."

The subject looks between us in silence during our exchange, and I return my attention to him, softening my expression.

"Is that okay?" I give him a hopeful smile. He looks uncomfortable, like no one has ever asked him for permission before. He nods slightly.

I hear Michael's frustrated grunt, then the sound of his footsteps as he leaves the room. I know it's not good to get on his bad side, but I can't help but feel satisfied.

I gel the subject's hair and place the electrode cap on his head, then leave to wash my hands. When I return, he's still sitting almost completely still, the same blank expression on his face.

I sit down beside him, waiting for the technicians to finish wiring the equipment to the computers. My gaze is drawn to his metal arm. It's unmoving, his hand grasped firmly around the edge of the chair. I run my finger along it cautiously. When I glance up, I notice him watching me.

"Can you feel when something touches your arm?" My curiosity gets the better of me.

He just stares back, and I'm beginning to think he's not going to respond when he opens his mouth.

"No."

Well, at least it's something.

"Can you show me how you move your fingers?" I gesture to his hand.

He raises his arm from the chair, and clenches and unclenches his fist, moving his fingers to show me the articulation of the joints.

I'm astonished. It moves so naturally that you can hardly tell it's an artificial replacement. Except for the fact that, you know, it's metal.

"Does it feel like your other arm? I mean, do you just think about moving it, the same way?" I take his hand, turning it over to examine the detailed metalwork.

He doesn't seem to mind, but I guess he's finished answering my questions for the time being because he hasn't said a word in response.

"I wouldn't get so close to him, Elise. The last one got a broken nose, and I'd hate for a lovely girl to experience the same fate."

I look up at the sound of the familiar voice, and see Alexander Pierce enter the room.

Wonder if he's the reason the subject stopped responding to me.

Rumlow and another Strike team agent enter a moment later, carrying semi-automatic guns. They might be a reason too.

"He's been docile so far, Mr. Pierce." I smile back at him.

"Good. But I expect that's because he's been subdued on his trip from Russia." Pierce eyes the subject with the look of a man who got more than he'd bargained for.

"Do you mind stepping out for a while, Elise?" Pierce smiles at me suddenly. "I'll have them get you when we're done."

His tone doesn't really leave much room for arguments, so I smile back and head for the door.

I hold my breath as I pass Rumlow, but he doesn't react to my presence. Doesn't even look at me.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't bother me. But at the same time, I don't want to accept that it does… because it makes me realize how much I want him to like me.


	10. Strike 10 - Authority

I return to the office while I wait for Pierce to finish, only to find Michael already there, waiting. He's leaning against my desk, arms crossed, and he doesn't look happy to see me.

"Why are you back? Thought you were enjoying yourself in there." He doesn't tried to hide his accusatory tone now.

"Why are you acting like this today? Why does it matter who I speak to or how I do my work?" I retort, my brows furrowing in irritation.

"Because you're interfering with _my work_ and undermining my authority." He raises his voice as he moves towards me, closing the space between us in just two strides. I've rarely noticed how much he towers over me. I'm a respectable five foot seven; he's around six feet, and though he's not built like Rumlow, he's still strong enough to potentially hurt me.

"I wasn't aware that being civil to a subject counts as undermining your authority." I lower my voice.

"We don't operate like that here. Our job is to finish the job quickly and efficiently. We're not here to chit-chat with him." His frown grows into a scowl.

"So does that apply to Strike team members too?" I roll my eyes. "Or is talking with them also a violation of your authority?"

I must have hit a nerve, because he grabs me by the shoulder and pushes me up against the wall, slamming his other hand against the bulletin board beside me.

"You follow my rules here, Elise. This isn't Nikolav's lab. This is different. You need to get used to it or we're going to have a problem. And I might have to do something about that." Michael lowers his voice to a threatening tone.

Do what?

"I follow Pierce's rules. There's nothing you can do against him." I stare at him defiantly.

I begin to see hints of the growing fury that Michael is trying so hard to restrain. He turns away from me, kicks a chair out of the way and storms out. The chair crashes against a filing cabinet before rolling to a still.

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My hands are shaking.

Michael's changed. I knew he harboured resentment for me, but I never thought he'd threaten me. I assumed he might do something administrative, maybe get me transferred to another lab. But then I remembered Pierce's words. _The only way out of this team is death._

It might be too late for administrative fixes.

What if he really does try to hurt me?

I'm startled by a sudden knock at the door. I look up to see Rumlow standing in the threshold, and relief washes over me.

"You can go back." He says, turning to leave.

"Agent Rumlow, wait." I call, following him out of the room.

He turns to face me, eyebrow raised questioningly.

"I'm sorry. I know I turned down your offer yesterday, but I realized after the fact that I really do need to improve. It's embarrassing to ask but… "

He casts me a silent glance, a smile tugging at his lips, and then starts walking away.

So… is that a no?

"Find me when you get off work. I'll be here until 8." He calls back.


	11. Strike 11 - A Lie

"Good work today." Kenji, one of the supervisors, claps me on the shoulder as he passes.

"Thanks. Long day." I reply, stretching my arms as I glance at the clock. Six eleven.

"Are you staying?" He pauses in the doorway, his eyebrows rising in mixed surprise and concern. "You don't have to."

"It's fine, I'm waiting for someone." I smile, "Have a good night!"

"You too!" He waves, disappearing into the hall.

I lean back in my chair and sigh.

I want to go home too.

The subject's early arrival and Alexander Pierce's visit concurrently threw a wrench in the schedule, and we only had the time to do very basic brain scans.

I pick up the fMRI printouts. Nothing. No significant amounts of white or gray matter compared to average subjects, no enlargements of any areas, nothing unusual at all. I don't know what I expected.

Maybe the way he's _using_ his brain is different?

Well, the comprehensive EEG scans will have to wait until tomorrow. Pierce didn't want us to tire out the subject… the _asset_, as he called him.

I turn in my chair and accidentally knock a folder off of the desk. As the papers flutter out, I notice that I haven't seen these files before. My eyes catch a peculiar phrase as I skim one of the sheets.

_The arm was tested for temperature durability prior to the subject's cryostasis procedure._

Cryopreservation? Like, _freezing people_?

I'm about to read further into it when I hear Michael's voice in the hall. Sounds like he's talking with someone else, and I can't hear their conversation, but I don't want to be around when it's over.

I don't think I can be alone in the same room with Michael again, not after today.

I shove the folder into my bag and grab my phone from the desk before heading out of the room, keeping my eyes down as I start walking down the hall.

"Elise!" I cringe when I recognize Dr. Jones' voice.

I turn to look at her, feeling the heat of Michael's gaze on me. _Normal_. I have to act normally. I can't let him know that his threats unnerved me.

"I was just about to step out." I reply calmly, flashing them an innocent smile.

"Agent Rumlow told me to let you know he'd be in the training facility waiting for you." Dr. Jones raises a sly eyebrow as a knowing smile plays on her lips. I'm sure she was _extremely_ amused to hear that I went back on my decision and asked Rumlow for his help.

I cast a furtive glance at Michael's face to gauge his reaction. His mouth is set in a firm line, his jaw clenched, eyes averted. He's clearly trying to pretend he isn't witnessing this conversation.

"Thanks, Dr. Jones." I plaster a smile on my face.

"You're welcome, hun! Have a good night." She winks at me slyly, and I have to restrain myself from making a comment.

I turn and continue walking, attempting to keep to a normal pace until I round the corner.

God, that was awkward. I try not to remember the look on Michael's face. So disapproving, like it's any of his business who I'm involved with. I'm off work, aren't I? I can do what I want.

The training facility is fairly dim when I enter, and it doesn't look like Rumlow's here.

I wait around for a few minutes, then head down to the attached shooting range and unlock a shotgun from the weapons storage. Couldn't hurt to practice my shot while I wait.

The first one is loud, and it always unnerves me. But, it's only a while before I get used to the rhythmic bang and tactile feedback as the gun recoils slightly in my hand after each shot.

Four of my six shots hit the mark. It's not dead-on accurate, but it'll do. I hope. I'm reloading the gun when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around slowly. I have a gun in my hand, who's going to try to launch a surprise attack on me?

"Someone you wanna eliminate?" Rumlow crosses the floor and stands just a foot behind me. He smells faintly of sweat and shaving cream, and I struggle to remember why we're here. _The question_. Answer the question.

"Not particularly," I reply, turning to face the target again. "Just thought it wouldn't hurt to be ready if anything ever happens."

He watches me take the shot. I hit wide of the bull's-eye. The next one doesn't miss.

"Why the change of heart? About the training." He tilts his head slightly to one side, watching me carefully.

I put the gun down, looking into those deep brown eyes. _Because I kinda wanted to meet you again?_

Michael's disapproving face flashes through my mind.

"Just wanted to be prepared. Really." I smile faintly.

It's not a _complete_ lie.


	12. Strike 12 - Jealous

"You still can't land a hit on me." Rumlow looks more amused by the fact than annoyed, but I can't say the same about myself. I'm frustrated. I'm pretty sure I'll be covered in bruises at this rate, but there isn't a scratch on him.

"Pretend I'm the person you're doing all this training for." He raises his fists in the defensive pose.

"I told you I'm just training to be prepared." I scowl, lunging at him with a punch. He stops my hand, wedging a foot between mine. Before I know it, he's flipped me and I hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of me.

"Maybe you should get some protective gear. You might hesitate to hurt me, but I can't promise you the same." He smirks, crouching down beside me. "You really wanna be prepared? You'll have to play hard. Because that guy—and I know it's a guy—isn't going to hesitate like you."

I frown at him in silence.

"End of the lesson." He stands again, holding a hand out to me, "Unless you want to tell me what's really going on. You're all over the place."

I ignore his hand, struggling to my feet on my own.

"It's honestly nothing, you don't need to get involved." I make my way to the punching bag, my back turned to him.

"Kinda feels like I already am if I'm training you. I'd like to know what you've gotten me mixed up in." he replies.

Fair enough.

"It's nothing you can't handle. I just didn't want to trouble you. It's my co-worker, a guy I used to work with in the Nikolav lab." I place a hand on the stationary bag. No energy left to punch it.

When Rumlow doesn't reply, I take it as my cue to elaborate.

"He told me that I'm messing with his workflow, undermining his authority, questioned me about why I was talking to you. And then he threatened to deal with me if I didn't cooperate or something, I don't know. I was scared, so I wanted to make sure I could fight if it came down to it. And I thought maybe if he knew I was training with you, he'd think twice about it. I mean, I'm not in spec ops but neither is he—"

I must not have heard his footsteps, and it startles the life out of me when he appears behind me, his arms reaching around my waist to grab my wrists.

"Sounds to me like he's just a little jealous." His breath is warm on my neck, his body pressed close against mine. A wave of self-consciousness washes over me.

"Why would he be jealous?" I feign normalcy as he turns my hands over, completely oblivious to the fact that this is _kind of_ a scandalous position to be in, should anyone walk in.

"You know, because he's not the one you choose to spend your free time with—oh for god's sakes" His sudden exclamation startles me.

"I already showed you how to tape this correctly. Why did you do it like this again?" He presses his thumb into my palm, his grip tightening on my hand.

Oh, crap.

"I couldn't remember how you did it. You'll have to explain it to me again." I reply.

"Not today I won't. We're done." He glances up at the clock, pushing away from me. "You better have that figured out tomorrow or I'm calling this training off. I'm a busy man."

I wince at his reference to my comment from yesterday, but hey, he said there would be a _tomorrow._ He hasn't given up on me yet.

"You got it, boss." I smile.


	13. Strike 13 - Nothing

"For the last time, Dr. Jones, Agent Rumlow is just training me. That's all. I'd really appreciate it if you didn't mention anything so suggestive in front of the others, especially Michael."

"Why?" She raises a curious eyebrow, and I know I've only set her off on a new track.

"Because he's already mad at me for interfering with his workflow, pretty sure he doesn't want me to get distracted or mess anything else up for him." I lower my voice, my eyes briefly glued to the door to make sure the man in question doesn't enter mid-explanation.

He doesn't.

I return my attention to the examination room window. The subject is sparring with the Strike team. Correction: the subject is _defeating_ the Strike team. Despite the fact that they have 5 guys out there, the exercise only lasts a few minutes before the next round of fighters are up.

He's so ruthless. It's completely different when he fights. He doesn't hesitate to hurt people at all, even if it's just supposed to be practice. It's like he can't control his strength, or like he's a preprogrammed robot. It isn't long before some of his challengers come wincing in with broken ribs and other miscellaneous injuries.

I read the files last night. I know that he's an assassin, and they've been keeping him frozen between missions… but to think he's been frozen for over half a decade… That's a little insane.

Most of the documents were censored beyond readability. Not the first time, probably not the last, but I expected a little more security clearance when I was told I'd be working under Alexander Pierce.

"Geez, you think at least they'd send me some back-up to deal with this." Dr. Jones scrambles to treat the men, "Can you lend me a hand Elise?"

"Okay," I concede hesitantly, "but I have to warn you… I'm a PhD, not a physician."

Between us we manage to patch up most of the guys. Some of them needed a few stitches, and as much as I _hate_ sewing people up, I'm forced to apply my rusty skills. Probably should have reviewed my Shield-mandated first aid knowledge when I transferred to this team.

I've just finished dealing with my last patient when Rumlow enters, a bloody tissue clenched to his nose. He tosses it into the trash and makes for the door when Dr. Jones blocks him.

"Oh no you don't! You sit down and get your wounds disinfected."

"I don't need any medical attention." He scowls, attempting to move around her.

"Brock Rumlow, if you get a flesh eating disease because of an infection you pick up in the field, I couldn't care less if you come crawling to me for help. Now sit down and let Elise see to your cuts." Dr. Jones glares at him.

I've never seen her so angry. At 5 foot 4, she's almost a whole foot shorter than Rumlow, but her commanding pose and defiant expression have him backing down.

"Fine, I got it." He concedes, running a hand through his hair as he makes his way towards me.

As soon as his back is turned to her, Dr. Jones immediately drops her angry expression and gives me a thumbs up and a wide grin.

I have to bite back the laugh as I avert my gaze from her face.

"What's so amusing, punk?" Rumlow's brows furrow in disapproval as he stands before me.

"It's not every day someone actually manages to land a punch on you, huh?" I reply with a smile, dipping a cotton ball in alcohol.

"I don't know how Dr. Jones expects me to be bandaged up by a rookie who can't even tape her own hand." He ignores my question, gracing me with a barb of his own.

He winces at the unexpected pain as I slap the wet cotton ball onto his scratched cheek.

"That's mean, you know." I mutter, letting my fingertips graze his rough stubble as I wipe the blood off his handsome face. It's not every day I get the chance to touch it so gingerly.

"Is your nose okay?" I lift his chin to examine his nose for potential breakage.

"It's fine. I've already broken it once before. Nothing new." He pushes my hand away.

Dr. Jones emerges from the storage room with new suture thread for the last remaining man. Seems he split his ear open or something, by the looks of the blood soaked towel pressed to the side of his head.

That's when the subject comes in, his lip bleeding, face cut in various places.

"Elise, can you deal with him? I've got my hands full." Dr. Jones glances over at him, surveying his wounds, "Shouldn't be anything serious, just disinfect his cuts."

Rumlow moves to a nearby chair before I have the chance to say anything else about his nose.

The subject seats himself on the examination table without any argument, and I appreciate his obedience. I mean, for someone I just watched brutally take down a bunch of people, he's awfully quiet and well behaved. I've been warned that he has a tendency to lash out, though, so I'm not going to completely let my guard down.

I dab the cut on his cheek with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol. He winces very slightly, clenching his jaw to stifle his reaction.

"You took those guys out so easily." I smile at him, lifting his chin slightly to get at the bleeding wound on his jaw.

Predictably, he doesn't respond. I take his right hand, examining his knuckles. They're raw, like he's grazed his fist on concrete.

I'm in the process of bandaging his hand when Michael comes in.

"We need you in the lab—" he stops mid-statement, then changes his tone. "What are you doing?"

It's like a question a parent asks when they've found their child doing something they shouldn't be doing.

"Dr. Jones asked me to help her. I was on my lunch break anyway." I glance over at him briefly as I tighten the last bandage for the subject before heading to the sink to wash my hands.

By the time I turn around, the subject is already gone. Michael's still in the doorway waiting for me, but he isn't looking at me. I follow his gaze to the corner of the examination room.

Rumlow's attention is trained on him, and I realize he's probably figured out that this is the co-worker I was talking about.

The tension makes it feel like sparks are about to fly at any moment, and I wonder what each man is thinking.

"I'll see you after work, Elise." Rumlow is talking to me, but his eyes are still on Michael and it sounds like he's said it to make a point.

"Yeah." I reply, hearing the uncertainty in my own voice, and I correct myself, "See you later, Dr. Jones."

"Thanks for your help!" She looks up from her patient and smiles at me.

I cast one last furtive glance at Rumlow as I leave the room, trying to decipher his thoughts from his sober expression.

Nothing.


	14. Strike 14 - Believe Me

I'm vexed. The subject showed no significant reaction to his arm being touched when he was blindfolded. His sensory receptors didn't react at all.

So he wasn't exaggerating when he said he doesn't feel when things touch his arm. I guess the prosthesis isn't at that level of advanced tech yet, to be able to deliver sensitive sensory input.

I suppose that's not important for his case, anyway. He doesn't need sensitive tactile sensors in his arm, he's supposed to be a merciless assassin. Pain is an obstacle.

Still, wouldn't it be great if the arm could be improved to help people with lost limbs _feel_ again?

I flip through the files.

"Are you in an abusive relationship with that guy?" Michael's voice makes me practically jump out of my skin.

What did he just ask me? This is the man who threatened me yesterday, right?

"Geez, Michael. You scared the daylight out of me." I turn to leave the room, and he blocks me, crossing his arms.

"Answer me. Are you? You're covered in bruises."

The only abusive relationship I see here is the one I have with _you_.

"Who are you referring to, exactly?" I play dumb, though I already know he's talking about a certain Strike team member we both know.

"Brock Rumlow." He mumbles the name under his breath.

"I've been training with him to improve my combat skills, if you really must know. He doesn't exactly hold back." I examine a scratch on my arm acquired from a particularly nasty skid off the safety mats. Maybe should have worn longer sleeves today.

"If that's all, I have to go." I pick up my bag and make a beeline for the exit.

"I don't know why you feel the need to get so close to those people." He mutters, "And the subject, too. You've been told he's erratic, but you treat him like some little kid at the dentist. He could easily kill you at the drop of a dime."

"I'm not concerned. I don't treat him like a monster, and he doesn't treat me like an enemy." I pause in the doorway, "And besides, Rumlow was there."

"Doesn't exactly come across as a dependable guy." Michael snorts.

"That's not a judgement call you're qualified to make, given your little temper tantrum the other day." I snap.

"I was just angry because this team is all I have control of here, and I'm beginning to lose that control." He raises his voice in return, crossing the floor to tower over me. I turn to leave, and he grabs my arm.

God, not again. I shake his grip free, and he doesn't attempt to grab me again. Oddly, his expression shifts, like he's correcting his behaviour.

"Things are getting strange, now that the subject is here. They keep things from us. Didn't you notice the files?" His eyes flicker to each side of the empty hallway, his voice lowered to a volume only I can hear.

Well, he has a point. Those documents _were_ heavily censored.

"And what's with the thawing process? They won't explain anything to me when I ask about the subject's history." He continues, the suspicion evident in his eyes.

"You know we'd normally not be allowed to ask about that kind of information anyway… for the confidentiality of the subject."

"He doesn't have any confidentiality." Michael hisses, "Didn't you hear what I said about protocol? There are **no** ethics here. There's something they're hiding about him. He's not just an assassin. They won't tell us who did the prior work on him, so how can we find out what modifications they made to his arm and his nervous system? We're not here for our own research, we're the means to their end."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because you're the only one I thought I could trust." He admits, and his expression is… pained? Hopeful?

"I thought you hated me." I raise a questioning eyebrow at him.

"I certainly don't like you," He shoots me a pointed look, "but we came from the same lab, I thought I could confide in you. I've been at the breaking point for the past few days, on edge. Then you went off and started dating Mr. Navy Seal—"

"We're not dating." I interrupt him.

"Well, whatever. And then you get so close to the subject… we're disposable, Elise. Be careful around them." He looks genuinely concerned, and I have nothing to say. He's managed to plant a seed of doubt in my mind, and the more I think about it, the more I wonder…

What if he's right?

The sound of heavy footsteps echo from around the corner of the hall, and we both look over to see Rumlow turn the bend.

Odd. I didn't ask him to come get me. Was he worried about me being alone with Michael?

"Believe me." Michael whispers.

"I… I don't know." I reply quietly.

"Well, hopefully the P400s will give us a little more information. I'll have Nabeel redo the EEGs on the subject's LOFC tomorrow, maybe we can do a tactile test later." Michael switches the conversation seamlessly as Rumlow enters earshot range.

"Sounds good." I smile at Michael. It's silent for three seconds. I swear those were the longest three seconds of my life.

"Ready to go?" Rumlow looks at me expectantly, casting a not-so-subtle glance in Michael's direction.

"Yeah." I nod, plastering a smile on my face. "I figured out how to tape my hands properly."

"That's a start." He replies absentmindedly as we start walking down the hall. I wonder what's on his mind. He couldn't have overheard our conversation, right?

I glance at Rumlow, and find him watching me intently.

"Was that guy giving you trouble?" He moves a little closer.

"No, we were just talking about the data we got from the subject today. I could go into the details but I'm sure you'd be bored." I smile, letting myself relax. He's not going to buy anything I say if I seem nervous.

"Probably."


	15. Strike 15 - Hopeless

"You could take him." I watch Rumlow tape his hands, his movements taking on a reflexive nature, as if he was born to wield a roll of boxing tape.

It takes me a few seconds to remember that he's referring to Michael. Strange, how yesterday I'd been so ready to defend myself against the man. Today, I'm not so sure he's my enemy.

I'm not sure _who_ my enemy is anymore. If I even have one.

I glance at Rumlow. He hasn't given me any reason to distrust him. Maybe Michael's just being paranoid. He has a natural tendency to be a control freak, so it could just be that he's distrustful of these alpha male type guys.

_Mr. Navy Seal._ I smile despite myself.

"I'll have to be able to, if it comes down to it." I finally reply to his statement, watching him toss the roll callously onto a nearby bench.

"Probably won't. He doesn't exactly exude 'tough guy'. " He crosses the space between us in two strides, and I hold my hands up for his examination.

"About time." He smirks, crossing his arms, "You research types are supposed to be quick learners, but you're surprisingly slow on the uptake."

I pivot myself and manage to plant a solid kick to the side of his thigh. He deflects part of the blow with his quick reflexes, but stumbles to the ground, an expression of pain on his face. I have only a moment to feel triumphant about my victory before he's knocked my leg out from under me, sending me crashing on top of him.

Then I'm in a headlock, one of his legs wrapped around mine to prevent me from kicking free.

"Are insults what it takes to get you to fight me seriously?" He chuckles as I struggle in his tightening grip.

I head-butt him, temporarily loosening his arms long enough for me to free myself.

As he's wincing in pain on the ground, I mockingly plant my foot on his chest in victory, my fingers pointed at his face like a gun.

"Try me." I reply.

"Don't have to." He raises his hands in mock surrender, "You've passed the test."

I remove my foot from his chest, allowing him to sit up. I offer him a hand up but instead, he pulls me down onto his lap. My heart is racing at a million miles a minute and I find myself panicking internally.

"What are you doing—"

"Relieving some of this damn tension." He begins removing the boxing tape from my hands, and I don't think he's referring to that kind of tension.

Though I was certainly aware of his powerful thighs during our spars, it's a different story to be sitting between them.

It's scandalous, and we both know it.

"Someone might enter and get the wrong idea." I reply hesitantly, but I make no effort to move.

"Your co-worker, you mean? Is he an ex?" His eyes briefly meet mine, and I notice the playful smirk on his lips.

"No, I told you he's just a co-worker." I bite my own lips, tearing my gaze away from his face to avoid the temptation of leaning in close, of letting his rough stubble graze my face, of running my hand through his jet black hair.

"And what am I?" I hear the smile in his words as he finishes removing the last of the tape from my hands.

_Too close, that's what you are._

"That depends." I reply, hardly daring to breathe.

"On what?" His tone changes. His words are softer, taking on a seductive tone.

"On various things." I touch the cuts on his cheek from his earlier fight with the subject, letting my fingers linger for a few seconds on his skin.

"Are those things under my control?" He grips my hand, holding my knuckles to his lips. They're soft, and I already know where this is headed.

Sorry, Michael. I'm hopelessly attracted to this man.

"That depends." I reply, unable to help the smile that tugs at my lips.

He briefly raises a questioning eyebrow.

And then, he kisses me.


	16. Strike 16 - Smooth

There's something intoxicating about the way Rumlow's scent and cologne mix to overload my senses with a feeling I can't describe. The closest word I have for it is lust, but it's not that simple.

It's a combination of anxiety and adrenaline rush, brought on by the realization that anyone could walk in on us at any minute.

I can't get over how wrong it feels, even as he pushes me onto my back and straddles me, his lips never leaving mine. His strong hands, which had once so innocently applied boxing tape to my hands, now find their way beneath my t-shirt, his rough palms still covered in tape as his fingers travel along my skin, sending tingles through my body. I run my hands along the nape of his neck, and his muscles become tense as his breathing pattern changes.

He breaks the kiss off, looks me in the eyes, then at my lips.

"Lessons are over." His voice holds a husky edge, and he must have noticed it too, because he doesn't say another word as he removes himself from me, running a hand through his hair.

Yeah, I figured. We kind of compromised the platonic nature of this relationship.

I watch his profile as he stands, trying to find any sign of regret on his face… or a sign of anything else for that matter. He's definitely not a man who shows you what he's thinking.

It'd be an endearing trait, if it didn't make it that much more difficult to know what he thinks of me.

"You let me win that last round though. Don't think I didn't notice." I try my best to continue on with a normal conversation, but my heart is beating hard, my skin still tingling from his touch.

"You could tell?" He raises an amused eyebrow at me, and I wonder if he had really expected me to believe his little act. I know he could have easily taken me down at any point during that spar. He let me kick him. He let me escape from his headlock.

"I watched you fight with the subject. I should have a black eye and a broken nose right now." I roll my eyes, getting to my feet. "And also, you fight alongside Captain America. If I could defeat you, you wouldn't be on the Strike team, would you?"

He smiles, biting his lip in that damn charming way that makes me want to kiss him again.

I need a cold shower.

"New offer, under new conditions." He rips the boxing tape from his hands.

"What's that?" I grab a towel from the bench.

"I'm going for dinner at Benny's tomorrow night. Open invitation. Your call." He says it so casually, I have to think about his words twice before I realize what he's getting at.

"That's a really strange way to ask someone out." I laugh.

"I'm not asking. I'm a busy man." He tilts his head slightly, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

Oh, not this again. I sigh.

"Are you going to drop that any time soon?" I walk past him towards the exit, and he grabs my arm, pulling me backwards into his embrace.

"Convince me to." He whispers, his lips just grazing my ear as he presses something into my palm. Then he slips past me and leaves the training facility without as much as a glance back.

I examine the object in my hand. It's a piece of the boxing tape he'd torn off. Don't know when he managed to find a pen, but there are some illegible numbers scrawled on to it.

It's a phone number.

That smooth jerk.


	17. Strike 17 - Tonight

Judging by the way he keeps glancing at me as I work, I figure he's curious. He doesn't seem to want to ask, though.

"Kenji is testing the different wires in your arm that send signals to your brain." I explain, gesturing to the man sitting opposite me, his attention focused on the intricate parts inside the subject's prosthesis.

"And I'm watching how your brain reacts when he does different things with the wires." I point to the readings on my monitor.

He looks at the screen for a few seconds, then his gaze strays away. Guess he's not interested after all.

"Shoot!" Kenji's hand slips and his screwdriver clatters to the ground. The subject sucks in a breath, an expression of pain flashing across his face as his grip tightens on the arms of the chair.

"Is he okay?" I look on in concern.

"Yes, he should be fine now. I must have temporarily activated some nociceptor circuit." Kenji shines a small flashlight into the prosthesis.

"I thought he didn't have any pain sensors." I raise a questioning eyebrow.

"This is modified from Russian prosthesis technology that originally incorporated pain and heat sensors."

"Whose work?" I ask, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He looks at me, a sober expression on his face.

"It's best if you don't ask those kinds of questions here, Elise." He lowers his voice, "It's not our job. We just need to get this done."

"Sorry." I apologize. When did it become taboo to ask about established research?

I'm beginning to think Michael's paranoia may be grounded in some truth.

"I'm done here. You can take a lunch break if you want. I'll call someone in to disconnect the electrodes." Kenji glances at me as he shuts the panel on the subject's arm and secures it.

"That's okay, I can do it for you." I reply, closing my laptop screen.

He looks uncertain about my proposition.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay? There's no one else here. Do you want me to call some security down for safety?" He looks at me, then at the subject.

"I'll be fine. He's no problem." I smile.

"Alright," Kenji concedes hesitantly, picking up the toolbox as he stands, "Call for help if you need it."

He leaves, and I set my laptop on the table beside me before turning to the subject.

"Why do you keep doing that?" His brow is furrowed, a frown on his face.

"Doing what?" I ask, tilting my head slightly.

"Trusting me. Being nice to me." He replies, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.

"I'm a scientist. We're supposed to treat our subjects like this." I shrug slightly, removing the electrodes from his face and hair.

"_They_ don't." He mutters, and I understand he's referring to the other researchers… possibly other people he's worked with before. There's something about his words that fills me with pity.

"Well… I'm sorry. I can't change anything about them. But I won't ever treat you like that." I place my hands over his right hand and look into his eyes.

He just stares at me for a moment before pulling his hand out of my grasp, reaching for his shirt on the table.

"Have you been in the program for long?" I try to strike up a casual conversation while he's still talkative.

"…Since they unfroze me." There's a distant look in his eyes. There it is again. Cryostasis. If only I could ask him more about it without pushing him away.

"What about before that?" I frown.

He stares past me, his mouth slightly open, a faint expression of concentration on his face. It's like he's trying hard to remember, but nothing is coming up.

Finally, his eyes meet mine again.

"I don't know."

At the sound of voices and footsteps, I glance towards the door. Michael, Rumlow and another agent—I think his name is Jack Rollins?—enter the lab.

Three men, two of whom I don't even want to see right now, let alone together.

"You can wash up." I turn to the subject, and find him observing me intently. His gaze falls briefly upon the three men as he gets up from the chair.

"They're here to get the subject for training." Michael walks over to me, watching the subject leave for the bathroom.

"And why are _you_ here?" I ask, amused that he felt the need to walk two heavily armed men here. They're speaking in hushed tones at the door, evidently tuned out of our conversation.

"Kenji told me he left you alone with him. You don't listen to a single thing I say, do you?" He crosses his arms, a scowl on his face.

I shrug.

"Why are you all dressed up, anyway?" Michael looks me up and down with a critical eye.

Okay, so I might have put a little more effort into my hair this morning, but I don't consider straightening my hair as getting "dressed up". The eyeliner, maybe.

But it's not like I'm going to tell Michael about my date. There'd be no end to his grumbling.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I just like looking nice every now and then." I walk towards the door and slip past the men with Michael still trailing on my heels.

"Elise." Rumlow calls my name suddenly, and I look back.

"I'll see you tonight."


	18. Strike 18 - A Bet

_Author's Note: Sorry for the unannounced break, I was at a convention for the weekend and wasn't able to update. Back on schedule now! Additionally, I don't think I've made this clear before, so I'd just like to warn everyone that this story __**will**__ contain CATWS spoilers. Please keep that in mind! Thank you again for all your continued support and your reviews! c: they make my day. - Strike _

* * *

We're barely out of earshot of the two men when Michael finally breaks his silence.

"_Tonight?_ That explains why you're dressed up." He rolls his eyes, "I thought you said you weren't dating."

"We weren't when you asked. He asked me out yesterday." I shrug simply, feeling a growing discomfort. It's almost guilt, but that's ridiculous. I shouldn't have to feel guilty about my personal life.

"And you said yes, after I warned you?" His mouth curves into a disgusted frown.

"I don't have any reason to distrust him."

"You don't have any reason to trust him either." He replies, his frustration evident.

_Well, it's not like your threats gave me a reason to trust you._

"Whatever, do what you want. I was wrong to think we were on the same side." He turns and paces away angrily. I open my mouth to call after him, then close it again, thinking better of it.

A part of me wants to dismiss his rambling as jealousy, but I have a feeling that's not it. He's always disliked me, and he never hesitated to make it clear. That being said, I thought he had at least had a grudging respect for me when we worked together.

What if he's right about something, about getting too close to people I know nothing about?

The issue weighs heavy on my mind all day, and I'm still thinking about his words even as I sit on the steps to my apartment, waiting for Rumlow to pick me up.

The street is completely empty, with not even a breeze to rustle the leaves in the tree canopies.

It's a fairly warm night, filled with the faint sounds of city noise: dogs barking, ambulance sirens and car horns. The smells of people's dinners waft through open windows and into the still air, and it feels like the perfect example of a summer night.

I'm just glancing at my watch when a black sedan drives up the road, pulling into the empty spot just behind my white Yaris.

Tinted windows.

The driver's side door opens and it takes me a few seconds to realize it's Rumlow. Clad in a pressed white dress shirt, black jacket, and slacks, he's quite the sight.

I liked the SWAT-esque combat gear—cargo pants, snug-fit tee, suspenders that made it seem like he was about to parachute out of a plane at any minute—but he rocks business-casual well too.

"Excuse me, pretty lady." He takes his shades off with a little smirk. "You know a girl round here named Elise Summers?"

I roll my eyes, unable to help the smile that tugs at my lips.

"Something wrong? You haven't said anything." He watches me intently as I walk down the porch steps.

"No, I was just surprised. You look... different." I smile, feeling oddly embarrassed.

"Not so bad yourself." He looks me up and down with a quirk of his eyebrow, and suddenly my seemingly-conservative knee-high cocktail dress feels way too short.

"Hop in." He opens the passenger side door, holding it for me.

"Thanks." I slip past him and catch a whiff of his cologne. Different than usual. Bold. Enticing.

It gets me thinking… Is this okay? A work relationship, I mean. Rumlow didn't seem to care much of it when he openly reminded me of our date in front of Rollins and Michael. Maybe he thought "see you tonight" was ambiguous enough to refer to more innocent meet-ups.

I watch him as he gets into the driver's seat and closes the door hard enough to wake up my entire neighbourhood. He casts me a glance, then turns off the ignition.

"You wanna tell me what's on your mind?"

I can't help but smile at his no-nonsense tone. The same mannerisms, even outside of work. He raises a questioning eyebrow at me and I panic to find an answer.

"I just wondered if this is okay. That is, work relationships are usually looked down upon. Not that I question your judgement—"

"Pierce knows." He interrupts, buckling his seatbelt and turning on the ignition as if the issue had been settled with that simple answer. Far from it, because it's spawned a million other questions in my mind.

"How does he know?" I ask slowly.

"Dr. Jones told him." He replies, glancing out the window at his mirror before pulling the car onto the empty street.

I must be missing some part of the story here. When did she tell Alexander Pierce? Why did she tell him when _I'm_ still not even sure we're an item yet? When I explicitly told her we _weren't_ an item?

"You look confused. I thought she told you already." He casts me a furtive glance and a small smile before returning his eyes to the road.

Well, can you blame me?

"She made me a bet that I couldn't win you over in a week."

It's almost chilling, how casually he says those words.

"Wait, what? So… was that, was all that training a lie? You pretended to care about my problems and got close to me to win _a bet_?" I don't even try to hide my irritation.

"No, not at all," He raises surprised eyebrows, "I was interested in you back from the first spar. Everything I said about your potential was the truth. I genuinely offered you the training out of good will."

He pauses, biting his lip.

"Couldn't keep my attraction in check though, things escalated. But you were stubborn, and Dr. Jones bet me you wouldn't fall for me that quickly." There's amusement in his voice, and it's not helping to lessen my anger.

Technically, I shouldn't be mad. I was the same way, after all. I accepted his "good will" training offer despite knowing I was attracted to him. We were both lying to ourselves about the reason we were there.

Still, he made a bet with _Dr. Jones_? I can't help feeling like the butt of a joke I didn't know about.

I stare silently out the window as he pulls the car into the parking lot of a modern-looking three story building. Its clean lines, glass and metallic detailing make it look more like a night club than a restaurant.

_Benito's_, the large sign reads. Underneath, _Fine Dining and Jazz lounge _in silver lettering.

"I'm sorry, Elise. Are you mad?" His tone is gentler, apologetic. "I'll let you punch me later, if you want."

I look at him, at the way his hands rest on the steering wheel, the way the lights of the city cast soft highlights on the angles of his face, the way his hair is slightly slicked back—a departure from his work look—and punching him is really the last thing on my mind at the moment.

"Yeah, I want to punch you."


	19. Strike 19 - Casanova

"You've been distracted all night." He comments, walking me up the porch steps to my door.

"Have I been? I'm sorry. Dinner was great, loved the live music too." I fish through my clutch purse for my keys, but I'm not in a particular rush to find them. Feels like the night's gone by much quicker than I expected, and given the new info on my mind, I spent much of it re-evaluating Rumlow's character.

Final conclusion? I don't know. I'm not any less physically attracted to him, that's for sure.

"Are you still mad?" He leans against the railing, watching me.

I glance up at him briefly. His expression is unreadable, his lips drawn in a sober line.

"A little. I mean… I'm annoyed, that's all. I feel like I was just part of a game you were playing with Dr. Jones." I lower my voice, my gaze returning to my purse. My fingers close around the keys, but I don't make a move to unlock the door.

He runs a hand through the hair at the back of his head, keeping it there while he contemplates his next words.

"There was more to it than the bet. I don't want you to think I didn't care about your problems. I wanted to keep an eye out for you. I still think you can handle Michael on your own, so I didn't want to step on your toes. But helping you with him gave me the excuse to get close to you, and that in itself had nothing to do with the bet."

I place my clutch on the concrete siding behind me, contemplating his words in silence for a minute.

"You're smart, sexy, and assertive, Elise. I can see why Michael is jealous when I'm around you." He reaches forward and pulls the clip out of my bun, shaking my hair loose. The feeling of his fingers ruffling my hair sends a shiver up my spine. It falls to its regular length around my shoulders, and I tuck the forward strands behind my ear out of habit.

Jealous. That's great and all, but I still don't think he's jealous. I don't think I can tell Rumlow anything about what Michael said, though.

He raises an eyebrow at me, questioning my silence. I hold his gaze for a few seconds, noting the way the porch lamp's soft yellow light illuminates his face. Those cheekbones. That jawline. His slightly gelled-back hair, which I've been wanting to run my hands through all night. And he's been so patient with me tonight, so invested in making sure I enjoyed myself through dinner and the jazz performance… How can I be mad?

"I can forgive you if you let me do one thing." I smile.

He braces himself, remembering his promise from earlier. I'd forgotten about it, actually, and I can't help but grin at the thought that he actually expects me to punch him. His brow furrows in confusion, and I seize my chance.

I lean in, pressing my lips to his mouth in a soft kiss. His surprise is evident in the way his body freezes for a brief moment, then I feel the smile on his lips as he embraces me, one hand resting on the small of my back, the other on my hip. I can feel his firm grasp through the fabric of my dress and the sensation is arousing.

He tastes of chocolate and caramel, and his 5'o clock shadow tickles my skin as he deepens the kiss. I hadn't intended to take it this far, especially not on my front porch, but it's hard to pull away. Never have a few minutes felt so endless. His cologne, still as bold and enticing as earlier in the night, now promises seduction and unbridled passion. When he finally breaks off, he retains his hold on me, his lips trailing gentle kisses along my cheek and down the side of my neck to my exposed collar bone.

"Brock, we're outside." It's with some regret that I pull away from him, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. He takes it in stride, judging by the amused expression on his face.

"You surprised me." He chuckles, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb, "I said you could punch me."

And put another scar on that face? That would be a shame.

"I can still punch you if you want to be punched that badly." I laugh lightly, unlocking my front door. "Do you want to come in for a drink? Pop or something?"

"I shouldn't," He bites his lip, "I have an early start tomorrow—"

"Calm down, Casanova. It's not what you think. Just a drink." I roll my eyes with a smile, pushing the door open.

"Alright, alright." He checks his watch before following me into the foyer.

I notice the way he covertly evaluates the inside of my house like it's a location he's scouting for a mission, and it's a little weird, but I'll chalk it up to the fact that he's probably just used to doing that on the job.

Once in the kitchen, I grab some cans of Pepsi from the fridge and sit down across from him at the breakfast bar. We talk for a while about music and movies, then switch to discussing Shield, the different staff we know and their odd tendencies. Of course, this leads our conversation to shift to a topic I don't really want to talk about tonight.

"So, tell me about Michael. How are things going? Did he threaten you after he found out about our date?"

"Michael… he's just edgy because of work stress." I shift my gaze to the table. "He hasn't threatened me again. I think he just snapped that one time. He wasn't happy that I spent so much time with you or the subject."

"The guy comes across as pretty impulsive. Possessive, even. Sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, getting into things that don't concern him." I feel Rumlow's gaze on me, and his words seem to be prompting me to agree with him.

"Sure? But he's not that bad at heart." I shrug.

"Really?" He eyes me intently, "Though, I think he was right about the asset—the subject, that is. He's an assassin. He's killed researchers before on his erratic whims. You should be careful."

"I think I treat him pretty nicely. He hasn't had a problem with me so far." I glance down at the can in my hands, wondering what brought about his sudden interest in my interactions with the subject.

"He's not really the kind of guy you want to get close to. Who knows what might happen?"

I don't like the foreboding tone he used just now.

"I understand your concern, but your job is to train with him. My job is just to monitor him. We're not working in the same environment. I don't see any reason for him to get agitated around me." I smile, trying to downplay his concerns, but his lips curve into a frown.

"He becomes agitated every so often, and then he's wiped. So I'm telling you to be careful, Elise."

"What do you mean, wiped?" I try my chances with the question, but I expect the same response as Kenji's. Don't ask.

"They wipe his memory sometimes. It improves his performance as an assassin." Rumlow explains.

Well, this is news to me.

"That's all you need to know." His eyes flicker up to meet mine suddenly, and despite the faint smile plastered on his lips, I know he's trying to subtly tell me that I shouldn't ask anyone about this.

"Got it." I reply, forcing a smile. He evaluates my expression for a minute, and it seems he's satisfied with my answer.

"Gotta run now." He glances at his watch, grabbing his jacket from the stool beside him as he stands to leave.

"Thanks for taking me out, Brock. I enjoyed it, really." I walk him to the front hall, and as I unlock the door for him, he plants a kiss on my cheek.

"Well then, we should do this again. Maybe afterwards, we can practice a different type of sparring." He winks, and I shake my head slowly at his shameless suggestion, feeling the smile creep onto my face.

"I'd like that."


	20. Strike 20 - Some People

I'm on my lunch break in the empty examination room when Dr. Jones enters.

"Hey Elise." She smiles at me, and I study her face, expecting her to pipe up about her bet with Rumlow any time now. She doesn't say anything else, so I return my gaze to the training facility beyond the glass window.

"Hi Dr. Jones."

"What are you up to?" She crosses the room and stands beside me, leaning against the examination table.

"Just watching him train. He's really something else with that arm." I gesture to the subject. He's lifting weights, alone, his attention focused on his task.

"You're really getting attached to him, huh?" Dr. Jones jokes, punching me softly on the arm.

"I just feel bad for him. He goes through a lot of unpleasant things here." I shrug, not wanting to say too much. If there's anything I've learned from speaking about the subject in the past few days, it's that you really shouldn't speak about the subject.

"We all do. It's a necessary part of his job." She smiles faintly, gazing into the training facility with a distant look in her eyes.

It's silent for a while, and then the sound of footsteps prompts us both to look back at the door as Rumlow and Jack Rollins enter the room from the hall.

I don't know why I expected some kind of special acknowledgement, but Rumlow's simple wave and polite smile feel odd. He's exceedingly talented at pretending there's nothing between us. Guess that's to be expected from a man so dedicated to his work. The two men continue through to the facility without a word.

When they're gone, Dr. Jones nudges me.

"You should really focus your attention on one of those two, you know. Forget Michael and the subject. If not Rumlow, at least give Rollins a chance. Though, I think as a matter of temperament, you and Brock are the better match."

I don't know why she's still trying to play cupid for me.

"Nice try, Dr. Jones, but I already know about your little bet." I frown. Instead of looking like a criminal caught red-handed, she looks pleasantly surprised.

"Oh, you caught me! How did you find out?" She grins sheepishly.

Wait, what? Brock hasn't told her that he won their bet? Maybe that's why he didn't say anything to us when he came in… trying to atone for making me mad yesterday.

"Are you two going out?" Dr. Jones eventually reaches the logical conclusion and her face lights up. Although her voice is lowered, I can't help glancing reflexively towards the door to make sure no one overheard her. She seems to accept this silent pause as confirmation and grabs me by the arms, a wide smile on her face.

"This is great news! I'm so happy for you. You're in good hands now." Relief quickly flashes through her eyes and I stare at her in confusion.

"What are you talking about? And really, Dr. Jones, I told you I didn't need you to play matchmaker for me."

She just looks at me for a minute, then grabs my hand and pulls me into the supply storage room, closing the door behind us. It's tiny and narrow, the walls lined on either side with metal shelves crammed with all manner of boxes and plastic bottles marked with hazard symbols. I'm glad I'm not claustrophobic.

Before I have a chance to question why we're in here, Dr. Jones raises her hand to silence me.

"Listen, Elise. Michael's been attracting the wrong kind of attention. He's always been a little odd, but when you joined, it became more noticeable. He's been asking questions, voicing dissent, and some people around here feel that he's not exactly a good fit for this work environment."

Her expression is sober, and as she holds my gaze with her piercing blue eyes, I wonder who those "some people" are.

"People don't last long on this team when they stick out like a sore thumb." Her expression softens, "I know you're a good girl, Elise. You're just curious sometimes, still holding on to your dreams and aspirations from Academia. I don't want you on anyone's radar."

Well, that makes zero sense. Hooking up with a high level STRIKE agent puts me 100% on the radar, doesn't it?

"I had a feeling you'd fit well in this team over time. And you and Rumlow are mutually attracted, right?" She continues, a knowing smile on her lips.

"You thought that dating Brock would guarantee my safety?" I raise an eyebrow at her unusual scheme.

"Not at all." She looks at me as if I'd just said something stupid, "We're all dedicated to our cause here. No exceptions. Alexander Pierce wouldn't hesitate to issue a kill order for you—for any of us, if we step out of line. Neither would Rumlow."

Realizing she may have unintentionally intimidated me with that declaration, she quickly backtracks.

"Look, nobody's getting killed. We're just talking about remaining a valuable member of the team and having less people question your purpose for being here. I thought dating Rumlow would help you assimilate to the environment more easily and quickly than Michael has. He hasn't had such a smooth transition." She momentary averts her gaze from my face.

Geez, does everyone have ulterior motives here?

"And besides, I thought you and Brock would make an adorable couple. And looks like I was right, seeing as he won our bet in such record time." There's a sly smile on her face as she turns to open the storage room door.

I'm about to reprimand her for whatever conclusions she's just drawn about my date with Rumlow, when Michael's voice calls out from the examination room.

"Dr. Jones? Where's Elise? Her break's over."

"She's in here. I asked her to help me count inventory." She calls back, ushering me out.

Just before I slip past her, she places a hand on my shoulder.

"Remember what I said." Her eyes flicker surreptitiously in Michael's direction.

"Yeah." I reply, hearing the uncertainty in my voice as I step out.

I don't know. I don't know who to trust any more.


	21. Strike 21 - Selfish

"What are you reading?" Michael drops a folder of papers on my desk.

"A paper on amygdala damage and emotional memory," I flip back to the front page, "It's by Adolphs, published in 2005."

"I don't care about the paper. I meant, why are you reading that? Don't you have something else to do?" He crosses his arms, and for a moment I'm briefly transported back to our time in the Nikolav lab. He's exactly the same as he was then: bossy and impatient. That's Michael for you.

I smile at the memory, and he just continues glaring at me expectantly.

I briefly debate telling him what Rumlow told me about the subject being periodically wiped. Michael's background is in systems neuroscience, so his knowledge in brain structure might help me decipher how they managed to do it.

Then I remember Dr. Jones' cautionary words earlier, and I think twice about telling him.

"It's pleasure reading." I frown, putting the paper down. "I just suddenly took an interest in the amygdala, that's all."

"Well, take an interest in your work instead. Although I guess it's not an issue, since you seem right at home with everyone." He grumbles, seating himself at the desk across from me.

"Why are you so damn bitter?" I glare at him.

"Because you're naïve. You don't understand the gravity of the situation at all." His eyes flicker to the doorway and he lowers his voice, "And you don't listen to me. Do you think I'm just a paranoid nut, Elise? Because I'm paranoid for very good reasons."

I stare at him in silence, my brows still furrowed in irritation.

He's right to be paranoid, though. It's only been a week and I've already received subtle hints from three people that I'm treading a fine line with my questions. And it's not like I've been asking about things that would obviously be considered confidential. I'm asking about the basics.

I know I'm not level 7 or 8 security clearance. I'm barely level 5. But I'm not used to conducting research without knowing all the facts. They should understand that it's hard to get used to.

"You were so excited about the censor-less environment when I first arrived." I comment.

"Yeah, well… that was before. After the subject arrived, everything changed. I can't handle it. I want to transfer out." He opens his laptop.

"You know you can't do that. Pierce says the only way out is death." For once I feel a little concerned about Michael. What exactly does he plan to do?

"I doubt they want me dead that badly. It's not like I've ever fit in here." He snorts.

"I don't think you should." I didn't mean to sound so insistent, but that's just how it came out. He raises a questioning eyebrow at me.

"What do you know?" His eyes bore into me, his voice lowered.

Should I tell him? The things Dr. Jones said about kill orders. About him being under investigation.

I don't know how he'll react, and I don't know how it'll implicate me.

"Nothing. I just don't think you should. It's safer here." I reply, averting my gaze from his face.

I just… don't want to do anything stupid. Is that selfish?

"Yeah, being surrounded by armed killers all day is _so _much safer." He scoffs.

Well, better to stay under their noses than to be in their cross-hairs.


	22. Strike 22 - A Promise

The café is bustling with guests, as is to be expected on such a lazy Sunday afternoon. I stare out the window, watching the crowds maneuver their way down packed sidewalks and across the busy intersection.

"Elise." A sudden pat on my shoulder draws my attention to the owner of the familiar voice, and I watch him seat himself across from me, a wide smile on his face.

"Dr. Nikolav, it's been a while." I don't know why I feel so relieved to see the old man. Maybe spending so much time in a high-tension environment made me uptight and antsy.

"What are you talking about? It's only been a week!" He laughs, that distinctive Russian accent tinting every word out of his mouth.

I just smile and shrug.

"Could it be that you miss the lab already?" He jokes, motioning a server over.

"I'll have a black coffee, please." He flashes a jovial smile at the young man.

I shake my head as the waiter turns to take my order, and point at the cup of coffee I already have.

I hate coffee.

It says a lot about my current state if I'm drinking it. I couldn't sleep last night.

"I guess I do. I miss everyone there." I finally reply, glancing out the window for a few seconds.

"Well, I guess Michael is the same way. Is there something I don't know about? For both of you to come to me days apart, I'm a little concerned." Dr. Nikolav smiles gently at me.

"Michael came to see you?" I raise a wary eyebrow.

"We had a few drinks last night. He wouldn't tell me much about what was bothering him, except that he didn't want to work at the Shield operation anymore. I felt bad for him. Maybe you can help him?" He looks hopefully at me, and my guilt eats away at my insides.

"I don't think I can. I've tried talking him into staying. I'm worried about him too." I reply uncertainly. _I tried_ to help him. But now I feel like I haven't done enough.

"What about you, Elise? Are you okay? Have you been eating and sleeping properly?" Dr. Nikolav's concern is touching, but I don't want to worry him.

"I'm fine, really. You don't have to worry about me." I plaster a convincing smile onto my face.

"Is your military boyfriend taking good care of you then? Michael told me you're getting along well."

His question catches me off guard and he bursts into hearty laughter at my surprised expression.

"How much did Michael tell you, exactly?" I ask, my grip tightening on the mug in my hands.

"You know Michael. He always says a little too much about other people when he's drunk." He grins back at me. "But I'm glad you've settled down! I hope he's a good man. I feel like a worried parent, waiting for you to find someone."

_You're not the only one_. But unlike Dr. Jones, I know that my professor's intentions have always been innocent and straightforward.

"I'll be fine, Dr. Nikolav." I smile reassuringly at him.

"You should introduce me to him sometime. Drop by the lab!" His brown eyes sparkle with enthusiasm and I can see that he's already planning the visit in his mind.

Yeah, no.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Nikolav, I don't think that's going to be possible. Everyone in that lab is… very secretive. I'm not even sure if it was okay for me to meet with you. Pierce—Alexander Pierce told me on the first day that I'd have to cut off all ties with my former colleagues." I frown.

The disappointment is evident on his face for only a moment, and then it's gone, replaced by his usual gentle smile.

"I see. That's a shame! You've risen to great heights at Shield, if they're that serious."

I'm tempted to tell him how untrue that is, how I've actually fallen farther than my previous standing, reduced to just another researcher who doesn't have access to all the information. I don't think I'm even a researcher anymore. I'm someone replaceable, whose only job is to monitor the subject. Nothing about this job is exciting or "high".

"This will be our last meeting for a while, then?" His soft tone makes the words hit home harder than I'd expected.

I can only nod, my eyes fixed on the swirling brown liquid in my mug.

"Then promise me you'll take care of yourself. And take care of Michael." He places a hand over mine.

"Then… Dr. Nikolav, don't tell anyone what Michael said to you when you met. About leaving Shield, or about his work problems. It might cause trouble for him." I make the request, even though I know he would never tell anyone anyway. He's a good guy, this old man.

"It's a promise." He smiles at me reassuringly.


	23. Strike 23 - Things To Do

The bullet hits the target dead-on. The next one is just shy of the mark, but it doesn't really matter. That would kill someone just the same.

As I'm in the midst of admiring his marksmanship, he turns around, lowering his shotgun.

"Stop." His voice is low, barely audible.

I glance around, but there's no one in the firing range but us.

"Stop what?" I look at him blankly. I wasn't doing anything.

"Stop trying to get close to me." He seems frustrated.

I open my mouth to point out that I've just been sitting here, then close it when I realize that he doesn't mean getting _physically_ closer to him.

He closes the distance between us until he's standing just a foot away from the ledge I'm sitting on.

"Why aren't you afraid of me? I could hurt you." He scowls, his grip tightening on the shotgun.

"I trust you." I shrug.

"Stop trusting me." He raises the gun at me, and I find myself staring down the barrel, trying to keep a straight face. When he pulls the trigger, there's a quiet click. No bullet. And I'm still alive.

By the way he's glaring at me, I know he's trying to comprehend why I wasn't afraid of his bluff.

"You used six bullets on that target already, and you didn't reload. I was watch—"

"Stop trusting me." He interrupts, sounding like a broken record. "When you trust people, you get hurt."

I gaze at him silently, trying not to imagine what unfortunate circumstances could have occurred in his life to lead to his adoption of that belief.

He turns his back to me and paces to the ammunition storage locker, and I hop down from the ledge, making my way to the door.

"That's not always true." I call back, pausing in the threshold. He continues reloading his weapon. Not so much as a glance back.

I leave the shooting range and make my way across the training facility, entering the examination room. Dr. Jones looks up as I head for the door to the hall.

"Elise! You're free this afternoon, right? Could you do me a favour and number those boxes for me?" She smiles hopefully at me, pointing to a large stack of small white boxes piled in the corner of the room.

"Sure." I shrug. She hands me a black marker and picks up her clipboard.

"I'm just going to head out for a few minutes to get some files from the mail room. I'll be back in a bit." She smiles, her frizzy orange hair bouncing as she tilts her head. Then she turns and leaves, and I'm alone.

The silence makes it difficult to escape my over-active imagination. Who was the subject before he became The Asset? Does he have a family? What's his real name?

I don't think even _he_ knows, so I doubt that _I'll_ ever know.

And I'd be fine with not knowing, if he didn't look so damaged and pitiful all the time. I should just give up.

"Are you a full time assistant for Dr. Jones now?" Rumlow's voice gives me a start, and I turn to see him standing in the doorway of the examination room.

"No, I just help her out sometimes when I have off-time." I explain, returning my attention to my task.

"Where is she? I've got a physical scheduled."

I wonder if Dr. Jones specifically asked me for my help knowing Rumlow would be coming in just now.

"She stepped out to grab some files." I glance at him. He's already removed his suspenders and is in the process of taking off his shirt.

"Do you really intend to strip right here?" I joke, averting my gaze to the unlabelled boxes.

"Thought you'd enjoy it." He chuckles.

I'm not gonna lie, I do appreciate the glimpse I got of his well-defined chest and abs, but I don't dare to look again. Have to maintain my composure somehow.

"Why are you being so shy, Elise?" I'm aware of his footsteps coming closer as he crosses the room, coming to a stop just behind me. I continue to label the boxes, refusing to give him any special attention. We're at work, after all.

"I'm not shy." I reply, keeping my tone as casual as possible.

"Are you worried that Michael will walk in?" His warm breath caresses my neck as his arms wrap around me, his body pressing against mine. The marker I'm holding slips on the label as I write a four, and though I quickly correct myself, he's noticed that his tactics are getting to me.

"I ran into him on the way here. Asked him if he's seen you. Looked like he was about to tear a hole right through me. Kind of a strange guy." He continues, amusement evident in his voice.

"You talk about Michael a lot," I smile, angling my head slightly away from him. "Are you jealous, Brock?"

"Do I have a reason to be jealous, Elise?"

I gently release myself from his grasp and turn to face him, only to find myself being pulled back into his embrace, his grip tighter than before.

Damn it, Rumlow, we're at work. Anyone could walk in.

"Do I?" He leans forward until our faces are just a few centimetres apart, a provocative smirk on his lips. I feel my heart rate quickening.

"No, you don't." I admit, yielding a smile, "Now let go, before Dr. Jones shows up."

"Too late. Geez, I leave you two alone for 5 minutes and you're already glued to each other." Dr. Jones marches into the examination room, clipboard in hand.

I feel the heat rise to my ears as I quickly push away from Rumlow. He doesn't look the least bit phased by Dr. Jones' intrusion. I resent him for it, because unlike him, _I_ feel like dying of embarrassment right now.

"I thought you left the rookie in charge of my physical." He chuckles, seating himself at the examination table.

"I think not. I had to retrieve your files. Elise is doing me a grand favour by labelling those supply boxes. I need to get everything sorted by this evening, but I'm booked with Strike team physicals all afternoon." She sighs, rubbing her temples.

"Well, let's make this quick then." Brock's eyes flicker towards me as a small smile plays on his lips. "I've got things to do too."


	24. Strike 24 - Loser

I fish through my bag for my keys, but they're not in any of the obvious pockets. I swear I left them in here, right beside that makeup set I never use and the unopened pack of Kleenex. I glance at my desk, and there they are, sitting right where I left them this morning. It's clearly been a long day.

I reach for the keys, and another hand blocks me.

Fingerless gloves.

How many people do I know who are always ready for combat?

I look up at Brock's face, too weary to question his motives. He's looking at me in that same way he looked at me in the examination room: a mixed expression of curiosity, amusement, and faint desire.

"Do you always play hard to get?" His gaze shifts to my lips.

"If I was easy, that wouldn't be very fun for you, would it?" I humour him with a mirthless smirk.

"On the contrary, I think it'd be more fun for the two of us." He picks up my keys and shifts them to his other hand—the one farther away from me.

"Okay, Rumlow. What do you want?" I cross my arms, my words laced with a defeated sigh.

"You don't need these today," He holds up the keys, "Dinner. My place."

"You have such an odd way of asking me out on dates." I try to take my keys back and he pulls his arm out of reach.

"I told you, I don't ask." There's an amused smile on his face.

"Your strategy is bold, but it's not going to work every time, you know." I try my best to sound critical but damn it, that smile makes him so irresistibly charming.

"I know. But it's worked so far." He leans in close, lowering his voice. _So confident._

It makes me want to win this argument even more.

"It won't work this time." I look him in the eyes, fighting the smile that pulls at the corners of my mouth.

He stares at me defiantly for a moment, his gaze flickering between my eyes and lips. We're just centimetres apart.

"My keys, please." I smile, placing a hand on his chest.

We're interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat at the door. We both glance over to see Michael looking uncomfortable and passive-aggressively annoyed at the same time.

Great. Twice today, people have walked in on us in awkward situations. Dr. Jones is fine, but Michael is clearly unimpressed.

"I didn't know public displays of affection were going to be a new standard in this workplace." He sounds so calm, you could almost miss the underlying irritation in his voice.

Well, damn, Michael. I didn't expect you to be so fearless. I glance furtively in Rumlow's direction and note the slight surprise on his face.

Better intervene before he has a chance to say anything.

"Agent Rumlow just found my keys at the firing range and came to return them to me." I lie, placing my hand out expectantly as I smile in Rumlow's direction.

With an expression of someone who's just been outdone, he reluctantly hands them over.

"I don't really care." Michael rolls his eyes, seating himself at his desk. He immediately busies himself with his laptop. I pick up my bag without a word, silently motioning to Rumlow that it's time to leave.

Once we're out in the hall and out of earshot, I stop, turning to look at him. He's watching me silently, his mouth set in a sober line, his expression unreadable.

God damn it. Even when I win, I feel like I'm losing.

I avert my gaze, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible as I say the next three words.

"Where's your car?"


	25. Strike 25 - Normal People

As it turns out, Rumlow lives in a high rise condo tower near the downtown. And when I say lives, I mean it very loosely. The place looks untouched. I've seen more lived-in homes in Ikea catalogues.

"You sure this isn't a hotel?" I joke, crossing the living room floor to stand in front of the wall of glass windows overlooking the city.

He's dialing a number on his cell phone, and there looks to be a flyer in his hand.

"I'll take that as a compliment on my design taste." He chuckles, "I'm not here very often, as you can tell."

"So you're the bachelor workaholic type? Always on the run? Ordering takeout because you don't have the time to get groceries?" I raise an amused eyebrow.

"You got it." He looks mildly impressed by my deductive reasoning skills, then turns his attention to the person on the other end of the phone.

While he's talking, I take the opportunity to poke into his kitchen. As expected, there's hardly anything in the refrigerator. The upper cabinets yield nothing, but when I open a lower cabinet, I find a curious sight.

A box of Ammo.

In the next cabinet over, there's an assault rifle.

I'm pretty sure people don't cook with those.

"Pizza will be here in—" Rumlow's voice trails off as he enters the kitchen, his eyes falling upon the open cabinet door.

"Odd place to store your weapons. You sure you live here?" I watch him carefully as he comes closer.

"I'm sure. Trust me. Those are from the last time." He runs a hand through his hair.

"Oh, the last girl?"

"There wasn't a last girl" He sounds frustrated at my skepticism, then pauses when he realizes what he's said.

"Really? I find that hard to believe." I angle my head slightly, unable to hide the amusement in my voice.

"Not many get as far as you have." A slight smile tugs at his lips.

That's a pretty loaded statement. Why didn't they? Were they not compatible?

Dr. Jones' words about kill orders come rushing back to me.

No, that's not right. It's not like anyone would…

"Did you kill them?" I look him in the eye. I might as well be blunt here. If I'm in a dangerous situation, at least I'm closer to the gun.

He looks genuinely surprised, then starts laughing.

"What the hell are you going on about? Of course not. I meant, there wasn't anyone at work who got this far. And after joining the strike team, I didn't have time to go fooling around with people in the real world. Dragging them into this life is a pain, not worth it."

I narrow my eyes, scanning his face for any hint of a lie.

"Did you really think I brought you here to kill you?" He steps forward and closes the cabinet door.

"Hey, it's just a possibility. Normal people don't keep hidden weapon stashes around their houses. I mean, aside from gun-loving American patriots."

"Some of my missions lead to run-ins with organizations that try to settle the score afterwards by targeting the agents. I keep weapons here just in case." He explains.

I return a blank stare. No, that excuse is too easy—too convenient.

"I'm telling you, it's the truth." He sighs, biting his lip as he shakes his head at my skepticism. I look at the closed cabinet door.

It could be logical, I guess, if he was working with some small-time assassin agency doing freelance missions. But he's not. He's working for Shield. Shield doesn't leave any loose ends.

"When did you become so paranoid? Did I scare you in some way?" He gently takes my chin, raising my gaze to meet his eyes.

"No, that's not it. It's just…"

Wait, it's not like I can tell him that I'm scared to trust anyone, thanks to Dr. Jones, Michael and the subject.

"There's a lot of stuff happening. It's been a rough transition, getting used to it all." I plaster a convincing smile on my face.

"I'm sure you'll pick it up soon. You're a fast learner." He smirks, "When it has nothing to do with sparring or hand wraps."

I gasp, feigning offence at his words.

He just chuckles, pulling me into his arms. This is strange. For a moment I almost protest, but I realize that we're not at work, despite the fact that we're still dressed in our work attire.

He catches me off guard during this realization and kisses me, pushing me back against the counter. The smooth marble edge digs into my lower back as he leans over me, the kiss growing more passionate by the second. It seems to contain all of the unreleased tension that's been building since we've met, and I let myself be swept away by the intensity, wrapping my arms over his shoulders.

And then the door buzzer rings.


	26. Strike 26 - Interruptions

_Author Note: Very sorry about the delay guys. I've been very busy with graduation but I'm back now. I'm going to try updating every other day again. As always, thank you for your reviews, faves and follows! I appreciate them all :) - strike_

* * *

He gives a defeated smirk, pulling away from me reluctantly as he moves to the intercom.

"Damn, they're fast. What was that, five minutes or it's free?" He muses, checking the monitor. "Not our day, is it?"

Well, I can't help it if your timing is off.

"I'll be right back. Security doesn't let anyone up." He opens the door and steps out. "Stay put."

"Where do you expect me to go?" I roll my eyes lightheartedly.

"Nowhere, smart aleck." He uses his no-nonsense tone, but I see the smile tugging at his lips just before he closes the door. I stare at the spot for a moment, then glance aimlessly around the kitchen before wandering into the living room.

Now that I think about, University was probably the last time I was ever at a guy's place. I remember having one or two hook-ups in first and second year… nothing I'm proud of, nothing long lasting.

Things changed when mom got sick, though. I stuck to the books and tried to make her proud in her last few years.

"_Follow your head, Elise. Your heart will misguide you." _They were her favourite words of wisdom. And she knew first hand, didn't she? My father left us, after all. Never looked back. I know she beat herself up over her decision to marry him. She was young and she was in love.

That's why she always warned me.

What would you think of me now, mom?

I let my gaze drift around the room. There's a large TV mounted above an electronic fireplace, and for the first time tonight, the mantle catches my eye.

No family pictures, no nick-knacks or souvenirs. Nothing really, except the store-bought decorative mantelpiece and a thin layer of dust. Something feels off. Normal people have personal possessions, right?

I walk back into the kitchen just as the door opens and Rumlow enters, carrying a box of pizza and a plastic bag full of cans of pop.

He closes and locks the door behind him.

"Next time, you should let me cook. I feel indebted." I smile as he crosses the kitchen floor, setting the box down on the kitchen island.

"There's gonna be a next time?" He casts me a sly smirk, one eyebrow raised questioningly, "I'd say that's enough to repay me."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his smooth-talking and pull up a stool across from him.

"What do you want from this?"

"The pizza?" he looks at me blankly.

"No, this… relationship." I reply. The word relationship feels awkward and uncomfortable on my tongue. Like saying it out loud makes it more… real.

"I think I want what we both want. A little intelligent companionship and some physical comfort." He watches me carefully, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Fair enough." I concede, falling for that contagious smile.

While we eat, he asks me about the research I've done so far. Seems harmless enough, so I try my best to explain what I've been doing in layman's terms. I don't mention my side-interests, of course. I've already been warned against looking into things I shouldn't be looking into, and I'm not about to be cautioned again.

"You're really passionate about this work on the subject, huh?" He comments, taking a sip of his drink.

I panic a little, wondering if I've said too much again.

He notices my discomfort and his expression softens.

"It's not a bad thing." He chuckles, "I think Pierce would agree that we need more passionate people fighting for our cause."

"What cause is that?" I watch as he crushes the empty can in his hand, his gaze never leaving my face.

"Order. Making the world a better place."

I look at him curiously, wondering if he plans to continue. He doesn't, and we just stare at each other in silence for a moment.

There's a vibrating sound, and I pat my pockets before I realize it's Rumlow's phone, not mine.

He checks the screen and excuses himself, stepping out of the apartment to take the call.

I really wish he'd elaborated on what the cause was. Seems reasonable enough when he says it'll make the world a better place, but I don't know how an assassin fits into that. When I joined this team, Pierce made it sound like I'd be part of the team. I feel more like a minion, blind to the nature of the project.

I fold the empty pizza box into its smallest possible form and shove it into the recycling box, tossing my empty can in as well.

The door opens and closes again, then there's soft click of the lock turning.

I check my watch. It's 8PM.

His footsteps are light on the hardwood floor.

"Sorry about that."

"It's okay." I reply, turning to face him.

He raises a hand and removes the butterfly clip from hair, undoing the messy bun at the back of my head as I watch him silently, knowing very well where this is headed.

"You were going to tell me about your cause." I smile, trying to delay the inevitable for just a few minutes longer. Just long enough to get some answers.

"Let's save that for another night. I have a different cause right now." Those brown eyes hold my gaze intently.

"And what's that?" I tease, raising a hand to caress his cheek.

"To have a little fun." He removes my hand and intertwines his fingers with mine.

"No interruptions?" I raise an amused eyebrow.

"No interruptions."


	27. Strike 27 - Tinfoil Hats

The high pitched beeping grows louder until I realize it's an alarm clock. Odd. It sounds different than usual.

There's a muffled groan, and a weight beside me shifts before the alarm is silenced. Only then do I realize that it's not mine. My eyes shoot open and I panic for a second before I remember where I am.

I move to sit up and suddenly remember, too, that I'm naked.

"Jesus, didn't know you were awake." Brock rubs his face, dropping his head back onto the pillow. "It's my pre-alarm alarm, you don't have to worry about it."

What the heck is a pre-alarm alarm?

"I should go." I glance at the clock. 5 AM.

"I'll drive you. Just go back to sleep." He yawns.

"I can take a cab." I protest, watching as he closes his eyes like it's a done deal.

"Home. I'll drive you home. You can take a cab to the office if you're ashamed, you damn rookie. Just let me sleep." He grumbles.

"Fine." I give in to his sleep-obsessed demands and lie down again.

Problem is, I'm too awake to go back to sleep now.

Instead, I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest for a while. His jet black hair is a ruffled mess, and I vividly remember the sensation of running my hands through it as we made love under these sheets last night. Last night. Last night, this man was moaning my name. If that's not enough to boost a girl's confidence, I don't know what is.

I trace the outlines of his chest muscles with my fingertips. The scars, the well-defined abs, the faint trail of hair descending ever lower…

He grabs my hand and calmly lifts it away from his skin.

"I said let me sleep, damn it." He growls faintly.

I give a soft laugh and his brow furrows, his eyes opening wearily. His nostrils flare slightly before a wicked smile crosses his face.

He pushes me onto my back and climbs over me, straddling me with those strong thighs, his hands clasping mine against the bed.

"I'm sorry." I look up at him through my lashes, trying hard to stifle my smile.

"Like hell you are. You want to go again, punk?" He leans in for a kiss, and is interrupted by the sound of his phone vibrating on the bedside table.

My smile widens as I catch the instant irritation that flickers through his eyes.

The phone keeps vibrating, but he makes no move to get it.

"Aren't you going to get that?"

"I said no interruptions, didn't I?" Despite the confident tone in his voice, he looks really undecided about letting the phone go unanswered. I enjoy watching his internal struggle.

He casts me a grudging glance before finally climbing off of me to answer the phone.

I get out of bed and pick my clothes up from the floor where they'd been hurriedly discarded last night.

He's talking at a low volume, running a hand through his hair. Mentions something about "project insight", whatever that is. By the time he's done, my clothes are on and I'm sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You don't want to take a shower?" He looks at me over his shoulder, and I'm drawn to the way his shoulder blades are accentuated by the action. The words are more of an invitation than a question, and I have to resist the urge to say yes.

"Nah, I'll take one at my place so I can change."

"Alright. Give me twenty minutes." He suppresses a yawn as he gets up and heads to the bathroom.

I leave the bedroom and enter the living room, planting myself on the sofa as I try not to dwell too long on the image of his naked body in my mind. When that fails, I turn on the TV to distract myself.

As I'm watching the morning news, I hear my phone ringing in my bag. It's still ringing when I eventually find it, but I don't recognize the number on the screen. Probably a telemarketer?

I wait for the rings to die, but they don't.

Finally, I give in and answer.

"Elise? You okay?" Michael's voice is loud and concerned, "Your car was in the garage when I got to work. Is everything alright? Have you been kidnapped?"

Well, damn. This couldn't get more awkward, could it?

"I'm fine, Michael. You don't need to worry." I sigh into the phone, turning off the TV.

"Good lord, I thought they'd finally got you."

Why does he sound so relieved?

"Who got me?" I ask cautiously.

"You know…" He pauses, lowering his voice, "_them_."

"Are _you_ okay? You're starting to sound like a tinfoil-hat fanatic." My brows furrow in concern. Michael is losing it.

"Oh for the love of God, I'm fine. Sorry for being worried about a colleague's whereabouts when they don't drive their own car home at the end of the day. To think Nikolav told me to take care of you. I should have told him it's a damn bother." Michael's back to his usual irritated self, and a little bit of relief washes over me before the guilt settles in.

"I'm sorry, okay? Thank you for worrying about me. I'm safe and sound, and I'll be at work like normal." I can't help but smile despite how annoyed he is with me.

At the sound of footsteps I look up to see Rumlow standing in the hall outside the living room, drying his wet hair with a towel. He's back to his work uniform, and somehow it doesn't feel that weird to see him in this look again after having slept with him. Verbalizing it in my mind makes it weird, though, so I'm going to stop doing that.

Michael is silent on the end of the line, which means he's apparently grudgingly accepted my apology.

"I've got to go, alright? Nice talking to you. Bye now." I hang up as casually as I can, not allowing him the chance to get any more words in. Somehow I feel like Rumlow would be all too interested in knowing why Michael had called me.

Thankfully, he doesn't ask anything.

"Let's go." He gestures vaguely towards the door with his head, and I turn the TV off as I stand, picking up my bag.

"Yeah."


	28. Strike 28 - Resume

I had expected awkwardness to ensue when I showed up at work this morning, but Michael doesn't say a word to me as he glances up from his laptop.

He looks rather uninterested, even.

I've barely sat down when Kenji comes in, requesting our presence at the lab.

Michael falls into step with me as we leave the room, following Kenji at a distance.

"I'm not going to say anything." He announces quietly, keeping his voice low so that only I can hear.

Well you've just said _something_, genius. You've kind of brought it up.

I stare at him blankly, wondering if this is some elaborate ruse to get me to mention what I was up to. Trust me, Michael. It's TMI.

He doesn't look curious, but I know he wants to know… something, anything. I'll just ignore him, and maybe he'll give up.

We pass the strike team standing in the hall as we enter the lab room. Rumlow, locked in a conversation with another man, holds my gaze as I pass.

"You were with Brock. Oh, good. " Michael's voice drips with sarcasm.

_I_ hardly even call Rumlow by his first name.

"What are you, my girlfriend? Do you enjoy gossiping? Are you a tsundere?"

He's an anime fan, so using the terminology against him is especially effective. He draws away, a scowl of disgust growing on his face.

"You really like waking up sleeping dogs, don't you?" He grumbles.

Oh for the love of God, Michael, this is getting old.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm paranoid. I'm too paranoid for my own good." He seems frustrated with himself, denying me the chance to chastise him for getting too involved with my personal life.

My irritated expression drops, and I try to find something to say.

"It's okay. I get it." I mumble quietly, shrugging my shoulders slightly.

The subject enters the lab, his eyes flickering from one person to the next before finally settling on Michael and I.

His gaze remains on us for a few seconds before he sits down in the chair, his head lowered, his hands clasped together.

He's different today. When Pierce walks in, I figure he's the reason. Whenever he visits, things around the lab become more hectic.

Today there's a crew lining the walls with what appears to be a sound-proofing material. There are boxes and boxes of equipment that have just arrived and I'm curious about they're going to be used for.

Pierce praises the subject on something, asks Kenji a few things about the setup of the equipment, and then he turns to leave. As he does so, he notices Michael and I, and makes his way over to us. I can sense Michael shifting his weight to his other foot—a sure sign of his discomfort.

"Good work so far, you two. Kenji tells me you've been a great help."

"Always a pleasure, sir." I smile.

"Yes, indeed." Michael manages to sound relatively casual as he chimes in.

Pierce looks between the both of us with that wide, grandpa-like smile, then leaves the room, calling for the Strike crew to follow him.

"You guys," Kenji turns to us, "Can you set him up? I need to attend a meeting with Pierce upstairs."

"Yeah." I nod. Kenji leaves, along with a handful of other researchers. That leaves just Michael and I and the two men installing the soundproofing material.

I open a box of electrodes, monitoring the subject out of the corner of my eye. He hasn't looked at me at all since he sat down. He's stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched, looking tense. Feels like we've gone back three steps in our relationship, just when I thought he was finally warming up to me. I think.

"Are you alright?" I venture the question.

He seems to startle at the sound of my voice, but doesn't respond. He removes his shirt instead, and I settle for his silence as I stick an electrode on his chest. Michael is on his left side, and he begins to unstick a latch on the subject's arm.

I note the irregularity in the subject's breathing, and brush it off. He's closed his eyes, and I think that means he wants no further conversation from me today. I turn my attention to Michael.

"Are you supposed to be doing that? I didn't know that you knew anything about engineering." I watch as he pokes around at the mechanics inside.

"You'd be surprised what I picked up here." Michael replies flatly.

"Isn't that great? You can put it on your resume for when you never leave." I joke. He rolls his eyes at me, and I can't help but smile.

I proceed with wiring the subject's two chest electrodes before moving out of the way to get the electrode cap from the table.

There's a loud crash, and a scream rips through the air before being silenced in the mere seconds it takes me to turn around. I see Michael collapse into a crumpled heap on the floor, the subject's metal hand loosening its grip on his neck.

I'm aware of my lips moving, my throat straining, but I can't hear myself screaming Michael's name.

I only hear his scream echoing in my ears, like a horror movie soundtrack stuck on repeat. It's surreal, and time stops for a few seconds as the realization hits me.

Oh my god. _Oh my god. _

I cover my mouth with my hands as I back away from the subject, his nostrils flaring, his breathing heavy, his eyes full of a pain I can't understand. _How can you look pained when you just snapped the neck of an innocent man?_

The other two men in the room have managed to hit the emergency panic button. As I collapse onto the floor, my eyes glued to the blood pouring out of my former colleague's mouth, I barely register the ensuing chaos as armed men enter the room, weapons pointed at the subject.

A chill takes over my body.

Michael is dead.


	29. Strike 29 - Stay

There are voices. Some familiar, some I don't recognize. The movement and running and shouts are a blur. The world is spinning, and no one seems to notice that I'm here.

Then there's Rumlow's voice. There's his scent, and his grip on me as he helps me to my feet.

"Are you alright? Can you walk?" He looks steadily into my eyes and I can't reply. I try to take a step but my legs are weak. A surge of nausea overtakes me, and I fight the urge to vomit.

"She's having an acute stress reaction, I'm taking her to the infirmary." He calls out to someone, lifting me into his arms without hesitation. The commotion grows distant as we leave the room, replaced by the silence of empty white hallways.

Rumlow passes the examination room and enters the attached infirmary, setting me down on an empty bed. I can't close my eyes. Every time I do, I see Michael. I hear Michael's scream. I begin to cry, and I can't stop myself.

"You're okay, Elise. It's going to be okay." Rumlow rubs my back gently.

I clench the sheets to steady my trembling hands, biting my lip as though it will stop the tears from falling.

"No it's not." I shake my head, "Michael is—Michael is…" I struggle to get the words out between heavy sobs, and he pulls me into his arms, resting my head against his shoulder.

"Cry your heart out. I'm here."

I cry. I cry until I don't think there's a single tear left in me.

I don't understand.

The image of the subject's face haunts me. Was I next?

I was wrong. I was stupid. I should have listened when everyone warned me about him… when _he_ warned me about himself. I'm naïve to the core.

And Michael, I dragged him along in my naivety, made him doubt his anxiety when he was right to be afraid.

He was right, and now he's dead. I promised Dr. Nikolav that I would look after Michael.

And now he's dead.

"Is she alright?" Dr. Jones enters the room.

Rumlow is silent, and I guess that means he expects me to give my own answer. I pull away from him to look at Dr. Jones. Her face is lined with concern, making her look years past her age.

"Oh, dear, look at you." She comes nearer, taking my hands into her own.

I pull one away to wipe my face, and she hands me a box of tissues from the bedside table.

"I'm fine." My voice is shaky.

"Take her home, Brock." Dr. Jones looks at him, her grave frown growing, "I'll have her excused for the week."

"I'll send Dr. Henderson by so you can have a chat about things. He's the best therapist we have at Shield, don't you worry." She turns to me, her expression gentle as she pats my hand.

Why is everyone so calm and collected about what has happened? Why am the only one shaken up by all this? Is it because they didn't know Michael well? Or maybe because they didn't care about him. Maybe this kind of thing happens often. This is Shield, after all.

The last words I said to Michael come back to haunt me on the drive home.

_Put it on your resume for when you never leave._

Neither of us could have possibly predicted what would happen less than a minute later.

"You okay?" Rumlow opens my door, handing me the keys to my Yaris. I just nod.

He watches me silently get out of the car and walks me up the porch steps.

I fumble with my keys, and he places a hand over mine, looking into my eyes with some concern. I let out a shaky breath.

"I should have listened, Brock. I should have listened to you… and Michael, and everyone who told me that the subject was dangerous." I whisper, unable to raise my voice for fear of hearing it crack and having the tears roll forth like a tidal wave.

"It wasn't your fault. Things just happen sometimes. He snapped." He shakes his head slowly.

A Shield vehicle pulls up and he glances towards it. I guess that's the car that's supposed to pick him up.

Without thinking, I grip his hand a little tighter.

"You want me to stay?" He looks at me again, his voice so gentle I have to fight to hold the tears back.

I nod.


	30. Strike 30 - Some Help

When I return to the living room after washing my face, I find Rumlow in the process of making hot chocolate.

"Would you look at that, I managed not to burn your kitchen down." He smiles as he fills a mug and hands it to me. I force a smile, recognizing his attempt to cheer me up, and take it from him.

"Thanks."

He casts me a reassuring smile, and I'm filled with gratitude for his mere presence right now.

We sit in silence in the kitchen for a while, until he clears his throat quietly.

"You know, everyone has their own way of coping. It's not easy." He pauses for a moment, and I watch him expectantly as I take a sip from the mug.

"Is this the first time..." His voice trails off as he tries to pose the question in a delicate way.

I nod.

Yes, it's the first time I've seen someone die like that. It was the first time I've seen someone I know die like that.

"I've been through it. It's tough. It's messed up. But you can't let it keep you down. It'll haunt you." He gazes into his mug as though he expects to see ghosts rising out of the steam.

"How do you cope?"

He glances up at me, mulling over the question for a minute.

"I've lost a lot of pals, but that's part of the business, and part of the risk. I understand that now. That understanding helps me cope." His answer isn't quite what I'm looking for, but I'm not going to press any further on it.

"I couldn't do anything. Even if I had a gun, I wouldn't have been able to shoot him. I always thought… that I could defend myself, that I could act if I had to… but I couldn't." I squeeze the mug in my hands as I try to push the memory out of my mind. Never have I felt as helpless and weak as I did during that moment when the subject turned to me.

"Hey," He places his hand over mine, "That's normal. You couldn't have expected that to happen, and the asset- the subject, he's not normal. He's a trained assassin. If he had wanted to kill you, he would have done it."

Those words sting, and it must have shown, because he quickly tries to change the tone of the conversation.

"Did Michael do anything to provoke him? Maybe he was messing around with something that made him angry? Caused him pain?"

I don't know. I had my back turned.

I shake my head, but Rumlow doesn't look convinced.

"He must have done something to bring about his wrath. Maybe he didn't know what he was doing when he was dealing with the guy's arm."

"I'm sure Michael knew very well what he was doing." I don't know why I'm defending him and why that sentence came out sounding so angry.

He stares at me silently.

"I'm sorry. I'm just really upset. The subject has never done anything like that in our presence before and Michael was good at his job and he knew… he knew what—" I have to break off the sentence because I hear my voice shaking again. I don't want to cry again. I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself.

"Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult your friend." His expression softens, and I evaluate his apology for authenticity. It's not like Rumlow has ever liked Michael, so I don't expect him to start liking him now that he's dead.

There's a knock on the door. Grateful for the interruption on this uncomfortable conversation, I set my mug down and make my way out of the kitchen, through the foyer to the front door.

Through the peephole, I see a bearded man dressed like a stereotypical college professor. Sandals. Polo shirt. Khaki slacks. No briefcase or clipboard, so I guess he's not a door-to-door salesman.

I open the door just a crack and peer out at him.

"Are you Elise Summers?" He checks his phone and glances up at me with a soft smile.

I hear Rumlow step into the foyer.

"What do you want?" I ask quietly, still refusing to open the door any wider.

"There is no need to be afraid my dear. I'm Dr. Henderson." He pulls a badge out of his pocket and shows me the Shield emblem inside.

A little bit of relief washes over me, and his gentle smile grows wider.

"You must have had a very difficult day, my dear." He steps into the foyer and I close the door behind him, locking it carefully.

"Ah, Brock Rumlow, is it?" He walks over to Rumlow and shakes hands with him. The two talk briefly in low voices about the incident, their expressions very matter-of-fact, like this whole subject-killing-researcher thing is a common occurrence.

"Come, come, Elise." Dr. Henderson waves me over and ushers me into my living room like he owns the place.

Rumlow returns to the kitchen, and though he's a mere two metres away, it feels as though I've been left with this stranger on a deserted island.

"Don't you worry, my dear. I only want to help you." Dr. Henderson senses my concern and pats me on the shoulder reassuringly, an understanding smile on his face.

His beard is an unruly mess of brown hair, and I wonder how he manages to pass himself off as a Shield employee looking like this.

"Brock may certainly stay for the session. I'm glad that he has been able to support you. Unfortunately it should go without saying that matters at shield are confidential. It's not always possible, therefore to confide in our relatives when such tragedies occur." He seats himself on the sofa, gesturing for me to sit down as well. I do so reluctantly.

I understand very clearly what he's trying to tell me. _No one should hear about this incident outside of work._

"Then, what about… his funeral?" I can't bring myself to say Michael's name and the word funeral in the same sentence. I can't accept that, not yet.

"It has already been arranged for tomorrow."

"But… what about his relatives? Michael's family live across the country, there's no way they can get here in time." I raise my eyebrows in concern.

"There is no need to involve them. Shield will take care of things." He answers simply, flashing that reassuring smile.

I stare at him in vexed silence until he finally casts me a slightly defeated look.

He clearly hadn't wanted to say the words he's about to say.

"This is not a standard funeral, Elise. It will not be a ceremony. It will be a simple burying of the body. As such, there is no need for formalities. No pomp, no circumstance, no guests. I know it sounds horribly cruel but that is the way things work here. I'm sure you understand." He eyes me carefully, the hopeful smile on his face seeming less gentle, taking on a tone I've heard too often recently.

It's a tone that says "_don't ask questions, just accept it_."

And I thought this man was a therapist? He's just come here to shut me up.

"So, I can't say goodbye?" I glance towards the kitchen where Rumlow is seated at the breakfast bar, watching us. I can't read his expression. I can't even tell if he's been listening to the conversation or not.

"I'm afraid not, Elise. That is the way we do things at Shield. But that is why I'm here to help you get through this difficult time. We don't abandon our own." He smiles at me, but I can't help the feeling of bitterness gnawing away at me.

Some help you've been so far.


	31. Strike 31 - Worthy

I realized early on in this conversation that Dr. Henderson is not the stereotypical therapist. The man loves to hear himself speak. In fact, I'm beginning to doubt Dr. Jones' claim that he's the best therapist Shield has. The casual attire certainly isn't helping his image either.

I glance at the clock on the wall behind him. It's been an hour and a half.

He rarely makes sure I'm paying attention to him, and when he does, a simple nod is enough acknowledgement for him to continue chattering on.

I can't endure much more of this. Maybe his style of trauma therapy is boring people until they snap out of their grief.

Rumlow has been on the phone in the kitchen for a while now, his back turned to us, his voice lowered. It's times like these that I remember he also has a job. A job I know very little about.

Could he even tell me if I asked? Somehow, I doubt it.

"Well, my dear, it's been a pleasure, but I must be going now. Heading back to see other affected parties." Dr. Henderson stands suddenly, catching me off guard. He doesn't seem to notice. I follow him out of the living room and into the foyer.

"If you need anything from me, here's my number. Give me a ring any time you need someone to talk to." He pulls a business card out of his front shirt pocket and hands it to me with a smile.

I pretend to examine it, knowing full well I probably won't be calling him anytime soon. If ever.

Just as I open my mouth to thank him out of courtesy, Rumlow's voice interrupts me.

"Can you give me a lift, Richard?" He moves beside me, his eyes flickering my way briefly, "Just give me a minute to speak to Elise."

"Of course." Dr. Henderson nods at us before he leaves, closing the door behind him. I fix my attention onto the door, but Rumlow steps in front of me, forcing me to meet his gaze.

He called Dr. Henderson by his first name, just now. I guess they know each other well. I wonder if that's because of Rumlow's line of work. He did say he's seen a lot of friends die.

"I got a call to go back." He takes my hands, looking into my eyes, "As much as I want to stay, I gotta go."

"It's fine. You've done enough already." I shake my head, forcing a convincing smile.

"You'll be okay by yourself?" He raises a critical eyebrow.

"I'll be fine. Don't worry so much, it doesn't suit your bad boy image." I tease, trying to appease his concern.

His lips curve into a smirk.

"I'll check in on you tomorrow." He plants a kiss on my forehead and turns to leave.

"Thanks," I pause sheepishly, "…for everything."

He pauses in the middle of opening the door, looking back at me over his shoulder. There's a split-second hesitation before the smile returns to his face.

"Don't mention it."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him quietly.

The sudden silence makes me realize how empty this house is now that I'm alone. I idle away a few minutes in the kitchen washing the mugs before making my way upstairs.

I've just reached the top landing when I hear a knock on the door downstairs.

Did one of those two accidentally leave something behind?

I head downstairs again, quickly scanning the living room and kitchen for any potentially misplaced items.

No… strange. Did Rumlow change his mind about leaving?

The knocking continues as I make my way to the foyer. I don't check the peephole before opening the door, and I wish I had.

Alexander Pierce smiles at me from my front step.

I stare at him, dumbfounded, for a few seconds. Am I seeing things?

He notices my eyes flickering up and down the street and gives me one of his wide, grandpa-like smiles.

"It's only me."

"Oh. I'm so sorry, Mr. Pierce, come in. I didn't mean to be rude. I'm just so surprised to see you here– Rumlow and Dr. Henderson have just left if you were looking for them." I move aside as he enters, closing the door behind him.

"I know." He replies simply, that same smile still gracing his face, "I wanted to speak with you privately. I won't be long."

I lead him into the living room.

"Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?" I find myself tripping over words, a sense of anxiety growing inside me. Why is Alexander Pierce here? Has he come to fire me personally?

"No, thank you. I can't stay long. And I know you've had a hard day." He shakes his head, his expression softening. "What happened to Michael was awful. It should never have happened. You must have been devastated."

"Yes. Well, I've known Michael for a few years now. Losing him is a very big shock." I look down at my hands.

"You two seemed close." He comments casually. The intonation in his voice tells me he wants me to elaborate, but what does he want me to say? I know Michael wasn't exactly a good egg during his time in this lab. And it's not like we got along like best buddies, either.

"We were close colleagues, that's true." I play it safe with my answer.

"Did he ever share any of his worries with you?"

"He just warned me to always be careful around the subject, in case he lashed out." I lie, unwilling to divulge Michael's_ other_ worries.

"Sound advice. Unfortunate that he didn't take it himself." Pierce frowns. There's an uncomfortable silence between us as I struggle for words.

"You seem to be dealing with this well, though?" He raises hopeful eyebrows.

I just nod.

"Good, good. It's difficult to handle what life throws at us sometimes. Brock told me you have the character and strength to succeed on this team and to make it through these kinds of hardships."

Wow. I'm flattered, but the man is giving me way too much credit. He barely knows me. It sounds out of character for him to speak so highly of someone he routinely calls "rookie".

"I can see that he was right. Coming here has confirmed my belief that you are a valuable asset on this team, Elise. I'm glad." Pierce stands, smiling down at me.

"You're leaving so soon?" My brow furrows in confusion.

"Yes, but I'll be in touch with you again soon. I think it's time you moved up a level. You've proved yourself capable." There's a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, and if I weren't so vexed and anxious about this whole situation I might have been excited too.

Did Pierce just promote me?


	32. Strike 32 - Not So Sure

Rumlow drops by after work for the next two days, staying for a while just to talk or watch a movie. I begin to get used to his presence in my house. It feels less empty, and his conversations keep me occupied, my mind unable to fill my thoughts with recreations of that horrible scene.

On Friday, he manages to convince me that I need some fresh air.

So here we are, Friday evening, taking a walk through the little arts district not too far from my house.

He doesn't mention Michael anymore, and doesn't speak of the funeral I wasn't invited to. Did _he_ attend Michael's funeral? Was he invited to attend the funerals of his friends—the ones who had fallen while fighting for Shield?

Is it just Shield protocol to have secret funerals? Or is it because Michael was a nobody? Did they give him a proper burial? Did they acknowledge his achievements and his contributions?

In the end, I can't bring myself to ask any of these questions. I'm conscious of his efforts to cheer me up, so I try to keep the mood lighthearted. It's uncomfortable to see him worry over me.

I glance over at him just as we pass the café where I met Dr. Nikolav a few days ago. It feels like a lifetime ago now. This was the café where I promised him I'd watch out for Michael. The guilt jolts me out of my carefree state.

Rumlow looks into the windows and seems to misunderstand the reason for my sudden interest in the place.

"How about a coffee?" He pauses on the sidewalk. It's crowded—as always—and the angry glares of people manoeuvring around us force me to make a quick decision.

"Sure." The word sounds uncertain and frail on my tongue, but he doesn't seem to notice.

As we enter and seat ourselves by the windows, I see a familiar, jovial figure approaching us from the other side of the café. I hadn't thought things could get any worse than this. I was wrong.

"Elise! I didn't think I'd see you so soon!"

"Hi, Dr. Nikolav." I force a smile, fighting back the feelings of dread, guilt and shame that threaten to surface on my face.

He glances down at Rumlow, and then back at me, before his face lights up with recognition.

"Is this your boyfriend?" He doesn't seem to sense the subtle cues I'm trying to send him… that this is not the time or place for him to be his usual friendly self.

"It's very nice to meet you. I'm Vitaly Nikolav, Elise's supervisor from her last lab. " Dr. Nikolav holds a hand out, and Rumlow shakes it, the cordial smile on his face concealing his thoughts from me. His eyes flicker my way, a million silent questions on his lips.

"How is Michael?" Dr. Nikolav thankfully seems to have remembered that I asked him not to mention his meetings with either of us.

I feel the heat of Rumlow's gaze on me. He's watching me, waiting to see how I'll answer this question. It feels like the air has been sucked out of me. It's as if all of a sudden, the world is closing in. The background ambience fades away, the clinking of dishes and the sound of voices now distant.

The seconds are unbearably long as I struggle for a response.

"He's doing well. The guy loves his research." Brock intervenes for me.

"Ah, I see, I see. Send him my best wishes." Dr. Nikolav's looks satisfied with that response, his smile widening into a grin as he turns to me, "It's been so nice seeing you again my dear. Take care!"

He walks away, and I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"Hey, it's okay." Rumlow looks at me, placing a hand over mine, "You did the right thing, not mentioning it."

His voice is gentle, but his expression is different. He's watching me carefully.

After a few seconds, the intent gaze is replaced by an amused smirk.

"I thought he was your dad. He looked pretty happy to meet me." He teases, picking up the menu in front of him.

"He… he was the closest thing I had to a dad. And to a family, I guess. My mother passed away when I was completing my bachelor's degree. I don't have any siblings, and she was an only child so… I was pretty much orphaned going into graduate school." I pick up my own menu absentmindedly, running my thumb along the worn plastic corners where the laminate has begun to peel.

I expected a revelation about his own background, but Rumlow is silent. As I gather the courage to glance up at him, we're interrupted by a cheery young waiter.

"Ready to order?" He flashes me a dazzling smile, flipping his light brown curls out of his face.

I'm caught off guard by his appearance, and I glance down at my menu quickly, picking the first thing that I see.

"Yeah, I'll have the French vanilla cappuccino, please." I hand him the plastic board and try not to notice the bold wink he sends my way before he turns to Rumlow to take his order.

As I watch the waiter stride away, I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Maybe I shouldn't have brought up my past.

The nagging worries disappear when Rumlow takes my hands, his brown eyes locked on mine.

"Listen, Elise. You're part of a team here. We're your new family. You don't have to be alone anymore. We watch out for each other."

His words fill me with welcome relief.

"Why are you so tense?" He angles his head slightly, a light smile on his lips, "Didn't Pierce mention that you'd be moving up? He trusts you."

Trust is a heavy burden to place on me at this point.

"He told you?"

"Of course he'd tell me," He chuckles, "I put in a good word for you."

"What? Brock, no-you didn't have to do that for me!" I pull my hands out of his grip and he raises a slightly irritated eyebrow.

"I recommended you based on merit and skill, after talking with your supervisors and discussing open opportunities. It has nothing to do with our personal relationship."

There it is—a glimpse of his working persona. Relentless, authoritative, unwilling to be questioned.

"I'm sorry. Thank you. I'm just… I don't think I deserve it after being on the team for such a short time." I shrink back against that steely gaze.

"You'll do fine, kid. I know it." His expression softens, and he smiles.

I'm not so sure.


	33. Strike 33 - Happy

When I open my eyes, I'm met with the sight of Rumlow's sleeping face on the pillow beside me. It takes me a second to remember that he stayed the night.

I squint at the clock on the bedside table, and realize that it's just a quarter past 6 am. I free myself of his embrace without waking him, making my way quietly to the bathroom. After taking a shower, I brush my teeth and change, then head downstairs to check the mail.

Just bills, mostly, but there's also an issue of Scientific American Mind. I already received a copy of this issue last week, though. It's not uncommon for people to get duplicates, but it's never happened to me before.

I flip through the pages casually as I sit down at the breakfast bar, and a piece of card slips out, gliding smoothly to the floor beneath the table.

As I pick it up, I expect it to be one of those pull-out subscription tabs. It's not. It's a small note.

_Be Careful Around Him._

The mere four words manage to send a frightening chill up my spine. I flip it over, but there's nothing on the back. I've never been very good at recognizing handwriting, but as far as I can tell, it's gender-ambiguous.

Who could have written me this note? Why couldn't they have been more specific as to who I'm supposed to be careful around? Did they mean Rumlow? Alexander Pierce? The Subject?

It has to be someone who knows that I'm subscribed to this magazine. After all, the issues are only delivered six times a year. I'm fairly sure that my colleagues in the Nikolav lab are the only ones who know I'm subscribed. We used to discuss the articles all the time.

It feels like Michael's ghost has returned from the grave to haunt me with paranoid warnings.

It must be Dr. Nikolav. He did meet Rumlow yesterday, after all. Did he sense something off about him? Did he recognize him from somewhere?

I hear footsteps upstairs.

Quickly, I fold the note up and slip it into the front pocket of my jeans. By the time Rumlow reaches the bottom of the stairs, I'm engrossed in an article about personality and genetics.

He crosses the kitchen floor, and when I glance up at him, he presses a tender kiss to my lips.

"Good morning." I smile, wondering what drove Dr. Nikolav to warn me about his man.

"Mornin'." He doesn't pay any attention to the magazine in my hands, "I've gotta run."

"You're not staying for breakfast?" I frown, and he smiles apologetically, placing his hands on my hips as he leans in.

"Next time." His whisper caresses my lips, and I part them slightly. He kisses me, pressing his body against mine, his scent mingling with the smell of shampoo and soap. I smile at the thought that he used my feminine-smelling bath products without a shred of shame.

"What are you laughing at?" He breaks away, pressing his forehead to mine.

"You smell very delicate today, Strike team captain." I tease.

"Shut it." His tone is serious, but I see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he turns away.

"I'll see you on Monday." He raises a hand as he steps into the foyer.

I listen to the sound of the door opening and closing again, and I feel grateful. For this. For him.

And maybe I shouldn't, I mean, given everything that's happened. I'd be an idiot if I tried to call this "love" when I barely know him. But I can't deny that I like him. He makes me feel beautiful, and safe, and special.

I just want to appreciate what we have, even if a part of me knows it might not be anything at all. I don't know Brock Rumlow, and I don't know whether this is all an act, or whether he actually cares about me. I don't know if Michael's death was really an accident or who I'm supposed to be careful around.

But at this moment, I don't want to care about those things. I just want to be happy.


End file.
